WIVING  OF 


,     MACGOWAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


GIFT  OF 


Mrs.  Oarles  S.  Aiken 


By  ALICE  MAcGOWAN 


JUDITH  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Illustrated  by  George  Wright 


THE  WIVING  OF  LANCE 
CLEAVERAGE 

Illustrated  by  Robert  Edwards 


"  I  was  just  a-studying  on  the  matter  "  (Frontispiece). 
(See  page  270). 


The  Wiving  of 
Lance    Cleaver  age 


By 

Alice  MacGowan 


Author  of 


'Judith  of  the  Cumberlands,"    "  The  Last  Word,"    "  Huldah,' 
"Return,"   etc. 


With  Illustrations  in  Colour  by 

Robert  Edwards 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New    York    and    London 
"Knickerbocker  press 
1909 


COPYRIGHT,  igoq 

BY 
ALICE  MAcGOWAN 


~C.bc  ftnicbetbocfcec  press,  flew  fort 


To 

Emma  Sell 


WHO    COULD    WITHOUT    DOUBT    HAVE   WRITTEN 

MUCH    BETTER    THIS    STORY   OF    HER   OWN    HOME    COUNTRY 

THE    BOOK    IS    AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTERS  PAGE 

I.    A  PAIR  OF  HAGGARDS i 

II.    THE  UP-SITTING 19 

III.  THE  BURYING 39 

IV.  A  DANCE  AND  A  SERENADE 50 

V.    THE  ASKING 70 

VI.    THE  WEDDING 88 

VII.    LANCE'S  LAUREL 104 

VIII.    THE  INFARE 124 

IX.    THE  INTERLOPER 140 

X.    POVERTY  PRIDE 154 

XI.    "  LONG  SWEETENIN'  " 168 

XII.  "WHAT  SHALL  HE  HAVE  WHO  KILLED  THE 

DEER  ? " 182 

XIII.  BROKEN  CHORDS 193 

XIV.  ROXY  GRIEVER'S  GUEST 211 

XV.    A  STUBBORN  HEART 223 

XVI.    LANCE  CLEAVERAGE'S  SON  237 

XVII.    THE  COASTS  OF  THE  ISLAND 247 

XVIII.    THE  HEGIRA 266 

XIX.    CALLISTA  CLEAVERAGE  GOES  HOME    277 

XX.    DRAWN  BLANK 293 

XXI.    FLENTON  HANDS 300 

XXII.    THE  SPEECH  OF  PEOPLE 3(39 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTERS  PACK 

XXIII.  BUCK  FUSON'S  IDEA 321 

XX IV.  SILENCED 330 

XXV.    THE  FLIGHT 340 

XXVI.    ROXY  GRIEVER 345 

XXVII.    IN  HIDING 357 

XXVIII.    THE  SHERIFF  SCORES • 371 

XXIX.    THE  ISLAND  AT  LAST 377 


Illustrations 


"I  WAS  JUST  A-STUDYIN'  ON  THE  MATTER." 

Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"A  FACE,  PASSION-PALE,  WAS  RAISED  TO  HIM, 

AND  EAGER,  TREMULOUS  LIPS  MET  HIS."       66 

"  You  'LL  MARRY  us  NOW — OR  NOT  AT  ALL."       .     98 
"  HE  PLACED  THE  INSTRUMENT  IN  OLA'S  GRASP.  "    202 

"  HE  GAZED  LONG  AT  CALLISTA'S  FACE  ON  THE 

PILLOW."        ......     246 

"  HE  BROKE  OFF,  STARING  WITH  OPEN  MOUTH.  " .     336 


vii 


The  Wiving  of  Lance 
Cleaverage 

CHAPTER   I 

A    PAIR    OF    HAGGARDS 

NOON  of  summer  in  the  highlands  of  Tennessee ; 
the  Cumberlands,  robed  in  the  mid-season's 
green,  flashed  here  and  there  with  banding  and 
gemming  of  waters.  The  two  Turkey  Track 
Mountains,  Big  and  Little,  lying  side  by  side  and 
one  running  so  evenly  from  the  other  that  only 
the  dweller  upon  them  knew  where  to  differentiate, 
basked  in  the  full  glow  of  a  Sabbath  morning 
radiance. 

A  young  fellow  of  twenty-three,  crossing  the 
crown  of  a  higher  hill,  tonsured  years  ago  by  the 
axe  of  some  settler,  but  offering  half  way  up  its 
side  resistance  of  undergrowth  and  saplings, 
paused  a  moment  in  the  open  to  look  down. 
Below  him  the  first  church  bell  had  just  rung  in 
the  little  gray  structure  across  the  creek.  Shin- 
ing above  the  ocean  of  woods  and  the  cabin  homes 
that,  like  islets,  dotted  the  forest  at  wide  intervals, 
the  Sabbath  sun  caught  and  lightened  upon  some- 


a  Lance  Cleaverage 

thing  bright,  swung  upon  the  newcomer's  back. 
Himself  as  yet  unseen,  he  gazed  down  upon  this 
his  world,  spread  map-like  below  him.  He  could 
pick  out  everybody's  home.  Each  one  of  those 
cabins  wore  to-day,  from  porch  floors  hollowed 
with  much  scouring  to  inner  cupboard  niche, 
an  air  of  Sunday  expectancy  that  lacked  little 
of  being  sanctimonious.  Only  the  house-mother 
remained  in  charge  of  each,  preparing  the  Sunday 
company  dinner  with  even  more  outlay  of  energy 
than  the  preceding  six  had  required.  The  men 
had,  by  common  consent,  adjourned  to  spring, 
barn,  the  shelter  of  big  trees  in  the  yard ;  he  caught 
glimpses  of  the  young  folks  below  him  on  the 
woods-paths,  attired  in  their  brightest  frocks  and 
shirts,  and  whatever  finery  they  could  command, 
sauntering  by  twos  and  threes  toward  preaching. 
His  smiling,  impersonal  gaze  was  aware  of 
Callista  Gentry  sitting  on  a  rock  above  the  spring, 
holding  a  sort  of  woodland  state  like  a  rustic 
queen.  The  time  of  roses  was  past  in  this  south- 
ern land,  but  every  dooryard  in  the  Turkey  Tracks 
was  painted  gay  with  hollyhocks,  while  in  ravine 
and  thicket  flamed  the  late  azaleas,  ranging  from 
clear  pale  yellow,  through  buff  and  orange,  to 
crimson.  These  lay  piled  in  a  sheaf  beside  the 
big  gray  rock,  and  the  girl  who  sat  there  was 
showing  her  mates  how  to  trim  their  hats  with 
them,  while  several  boys  looked  on  and  presum- 
ably admired. 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  3 

The  curious  feature  of  Callista  Gentry's  follow- 
ing was,  that  it  included  as  many  young  women 
as  young  men,  and  the  chariot  wheels  of  her 
mates  looked  robbed  always,  because,  inferen- 
tially,  the  man  who  courted  any  other  would 
rather  have  Callista  Gentry  if  he  might. 

Coached  and  forwarded,  exploited  and  made 
the  most  of  ever  since  she  could  remember;  a 
bright,  pretty  child,  and  a  dutiful  student,  during 
her  brief  days  of  country  schooling;  her  mother 
had  from  infancy  enforced  all  the  rural  arts  of 
beauty  culture  to  make  her  what  she  was.  Long 
home-knitted  yarn  gloves  were  worn  to  protect 
the  shapely  hands  and  whiten  them.  The  grand 
big  mane  of  ashen-blond  hair  was  washed  in 
fresh-caught  rainwater,  clipped  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon,  combed  and  tended  and  kept  as  no  one 
else's  hair  was.  Her  sunbonnets  were  never  the 
long-caped  ungainly  affairs  commonly  seen;  they 
took  on,  whether  by  accident  or  design  one  could 
hardly  say,  the  coquetry  of  a  wood  violet  half- 
blown;  and  when  these  were  not  in  use,  a  broad 
hat  shaded  the  exquisite  fairness  of  the  oval  cheek. 
Callista  had  grown  up  a  delicate  court  lady,  smooth 
and  fine  to  look  upon,  pink  and  white  and  golden, 
like  one  of  those  rare  orchids,  marvelously  veined 
and  featured,  known  only  to  the  bees  of  the  wood, 
whose  loveliness  is  always  ashiver  with  peculiar 
vitality.  This  Sunday  morning  the  lepidopteral 
flutter  of  gay  calicoes,  and  the  bee-like  murmur 


4  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  young  male  voices  in  her  court  of  youths  and 
maidens,  carried  out  well  the  figure  of  the  rare, 
moth-bewitching  blossom. 

"  I  wish  't  Lance  Cleaverage  'd  come  —  then 
we'd  see  fun!"  cried  Buck  Fuson,  rising  to  his 
knees  and  gazing  across  the  slope.  "  I'd  ruther 
hear  him  and  Callista  fuss  as  to  eat  my  dinner. 
Them  two  has  the  masterest  arguments  I  ever 
heared  outside  of  a  law-court." 

Brown  little  Ola  Derf,  sitting  slightly  apart 
from  the  others  braiding  pine  needles  into  a  ring, 
looked  up  suddenly.  A  woman  at  the  spring 
below  scooping  a  drink  for  a  fat  child,  lifted  a 
long  drab  face  and  sighted  in  the  same  direction. 
This  was  the  Widow  Griever,  elder  sister  of  Lance 
Cleaverage.  Sour  censor  of  public  morals  that 
she  was,  Roxy  Griever  considered  eighteen -year- 
old  Callista  the  young  woman  perfect,  and  found 
her  own  brother  quite  unworthy  of  the  para- 
gon. Only  the  central  figure  of  the  group  ap- 
peared to  take  no  notice,  while  the  girls  about 
her,  at  the  mere  mention  of  Lance,  all  fluttered 
and  resettled  themselves  with  a  certain  vague  air 
of  expectancy. 

"You  boys  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yo'se'fs," 
Roxy  Griever  reproved.  Then  apart  to  young 
Fuson,  "Callista's  got  more  sense  than  to  pay 
any  attention  to  such  a  light-headed  somebody 
as  that  fool  brother  o'  mine.  Let  me  tell  you, 
Callista  Gentry  has  more  sense  than  any  of  you 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  5 

men  persons  give  her  credit  for.  She's  a  serious- 
minded  gal.  You  Mary  Ann  Marthy,  you  quit 
treadin'  over  yo'  Sunday  shoes."  And  she  raised 
her  small  daughter  a  bit  from  the  pathway  and 
set  her  down  sharply,  as  though  to  indicate  the 
correct  manner  of  walking  in  Sunday  foot-gear. 

The  infant  of  the  triple  name  —  her  Uncle 
Lance  said  she  sounded  like  twins  if  she  didn't 
look  it  —  put  up  a  mutinous  red  mouth  and 
lowered  from  under  flaxen  brows. 

"Me  wants  to  hear  'em  fuss,"  she  muttered  as 
she  progressed  reluctantly  toward  the  little  church 
on  the  hill-side. 

"  Well,  you  ain't  goin'  to  hear  'em  fuss,  and  they 
ain't  goin'  to  fuss,  and  you  couldn't  hear  'em  if 
they  did,"  admonished  her  mother  lucidly,  ac- 
celerating the  infant's  pace  from  the  rear.  "The 
big  spring  ain't  no  place  for  chillen  like  you,  and 
old  women  like  me.  Let  the  light-minded  and 
the  ungodly  do  about  in  such  ef  they  will.  You 
and  me  is  goin'  into  the  church  house  and  set  thar 
till  preachin'." 

Fathers  and  mothers  were  herding  their  broods 
of  lesser  children  in,  but  boys  and  girls  of  older 
growth,  young  men  and  women  of  an  age  to  be 
thinking  of  mating,  strolled  by  twos  or  sat  on 
the  bank  above  the  big  spring  that  supplied  the 
baptismal  pool  of  Brush  Arbor  church.  Callista 
Gentry  was  wearing  a  new  print  frock  —  and 
looking  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact. 


6  Lance  Cleaverage 

"That  ain't  no  five  cent  lawn,"  whispered 
Ola  Derf  enviously,  as  she  eyed  it  from  afar.  The 
Derf  girl  was  an  outsider  at  most  gatherings,  and 
particularly  so  at  church  affairs.  Everybody 
knew  she  came  to  Brush  Arbor  only  on  a  chance 
of  seeing  Lance  Cleaverage. 

"Thar  comes  Lance  now!"  announced  Fuson, 
and  then  winked  at  his  companions.' 

Callista  never  raised  her  glance,  nor  did  the 
even  tenor  of  her  speech  falter,  though  something 
told  the  onlooker  that  she  was  aware.  A  swift 
slight  contraction  of  plumage  like  that  of  a  hawk 
suddenly  on  the  alert,  a  richer  glow  on  the  softly 
oval  cheek,  a  light  in  the  down-dropped  eyes 
which  she  jealously  hid,  a  rearrangement,  subtle 
and  minute,  of  her  attitude  toward  the  world, 
showed  that  she  needed  no  sight  nor  hearing  to 
advise  her  of  the  coming  of  the  lithe  young  fellow 
who  approached  from  the  ragged  second  growth 
of  the  abandoned  hillside  clearing.  He  came 
straight  through,  paying  no  attention  to  paths  - 
that  was  Lance  Cleaverage.  His  step  was  light 
and  sure,  yet  it  rent  and  crushed  what  was 
in  his  way.  On  his  back  swung  the  banjo;  his 
soft  felt  hat  was  off  in  his  hand ;  as  he  moved, 
the  sleeves  of  his  blue  hickory  shirt  fluttered 
in  the  breeze  that  stirred  his  hair,  and  he  sang 
to  himself  as  he  came.  What  he  sang  was  not 
a  hymn.  His  hazel  eyes  were  almost  as  golden 
as  the  tan  of  his  cheek,  and  there  was  a  spark 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  7 

in  the  depths  of  them  that  matched  the  auda- 
cious carriage  of  his  head.  At  his  advent  the 
Widow  Griever  turned  and  let  the  fat  child  find 
her  way  alone. 

"You  Lance,"  she  began  in  a  scandalized  tone, 
"don't  you  bring  that  sinful  and  ungodly  thing 
into  the  house  of  the  Lord.  You  know  mighty 
well  and  good  the  preacher  is  about  to  name 
you  out  in  meetin' ;  and  here  you  go  on  seekin' 
the  ways  of  the  Evil  One.  Pack  that  banjo 
straight  back  home  this  minute." 

She  evidently  had  as  little  expectation  of 
Lance  obeying  her  as  he  had  of  doing  so. 
Her  words  were  plainly  intended  merely  to  set 
forth  her  own  position  —  to  clear  her  skirts  of 
reproach.  The  young  folks  about  her  giggled 
and  looked  with  open  admiration  at  the  youth 
who  dared  to  bring  such  a  worldly  object  to 
Sunday  preaching. 

"  Banjo'll  let  the  preacher  alone,  if  the  preacher 
'11  let  it  alone,"  smiled  Lance,  unconcernedly  pull- 
ing the  instrument  around  to  get  at  the  strings, 
and  touching  them  lightly.  "You  go  'long  into 
the  church  and  get  your  soul  saved  for  Heaven, 
Sis'  Roxy.  I  reckon  they  need  representatives 
of  the  Cleaverage  family  in  both  places." 

"Well,  that's  whar  you're  a-goin'--er  more 
so,"  asserted  the  widow  with  dignity,  as  she  turned 
her  back  once  more  on  the  young  folks  and  moved 
away. 


8  Lance  Cleaverage 

Lance  took  the  ribbon  of  his  banjo  from  his 
neck  and  flung  it  over  a  blossoming  azalea,  bush. 

"I'll  hang  my  harp  on  a  wilier  tree, 
And  away  to  the  wars  again," 

he  hummed  softly  just  above  his  breath. 

"I  don't  aim  to  hurt  the  preacher's  feelings. 
I  won't  take  my  banjo  into  his  church  —  sech 
doctrine  as  Drumright's  is  apt  to  be  mighty  hard 
on  banjo  strings.  Don't  you-all  want  to  have  a 
little  dance  after  the  meeting's  out  —  on  the 
Threshin' -floor  Rock  up  the  branch?" 

The  girls  looked  duly  horrified,  all  but  Ola  Derf, 
who  spoke  up  promptly, 

"Yes  —  or  come  a-past  our  house.  Pap  don't 
mind  a  Sunday  dance.  You  will  come,  won't 
you,  Lance?"  pleadingly. 

Callista  Gentry  did  not  dance.  She  had  always, 
in  the  nature  of  things,  belonged  to  the  class  of 
young  people  in  the  mountains  who  might  be  ex- 
pected at  any  time  to  "profess"  and  join  the 
church.  The  musician  laughed  teasingly. 

"I  reckon  we'd  better  not,"  he  said  finally. 
"Callista's  scared.  She  begged  me  into  bringing 
my  banjo  to-day  (you  don't  any  of  you  know 
the  gal  like  I  do),  and  now  she's  scared  to  listen 
to  it." 

Callista  barely  raised  her  eyes  at  this  speech, 
and  spared  to  make  any  denial. 

"You-all  that  wants  to  dance  on   a  Sunday 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  9 

better  go  'long  there,"  she  said  indifferently. 
"  It's  mighty  near  time  for  preaching  to  begin,  and 
you've  got  a  right  smart  walk  over  to  the  Derf 
place."  Dismissing  them  thus  coolly  from  her 
world,  she  addressed  herself  once  more  to  pinning 
a  bunch  of  ochre  and  crimson  azaleas  into  the 
trimming  of  her  broad  hat. 

" Lance,"  drawled  Buck  Fuson,  "I  hear  you' 
cuttin'  timber  on  yo'  land.  Aimin'  to  put  up  a 
cabin  —  fixin'  to  wed  ?  " 

The  newcomer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  When  I  heared  it,  I  'lowed  Callista  had  named 
the  day,"  persisted  Fuson. 

"Have  ye,  Callista?"  Rilly  Trigg  put  in  dar- 
ingly, as  neither  of  the  principals  seemed  disposed 
to  speak. 

"The  names  that  the  days  have  already  got 
suits  me  well  enough,"  Callista  observed  drily. 
"I  don't  know  why  I  should  go  namin'  ary  one 
of  'em  over  again." 

There  was  a  great  laugh  at  this,  of  which  Cleaver- 
age  appeared  entirely  oblivious  v 

"Yes,"  he  began  quietly,  when  it  had  subsided, 
"  I'm  about  to  put  me  up  a  house  —  I  like  to  be 
a-buildin'  -  -  a  man  might  as  well  improve  his 
property.  There's  one  gal  that  wants  me  mighty 
bad,  and  has  wanted  me  for  a  long  while;  some- 
times I'm  scared  she'll  get  me.  Reckon  I  might 
as  well  be  ready." 


io  Lance  Cleaverage 

"  Ye  hear  that,  Callisty  ? ' '  crowed  little  Rilly 
Trigg.  "Ye  hear  that!  Have  ye  told  him  ad- 
zackly  the  kind  of  house  ye  want?  I  'low  ye  ort." 

"Put  a  little  yellow  side  o'  that  red,"  advised 
Callista  composedly,  busying  herself  wholly  with 
the  hat  Rilly  was  trimming.  "  There  —  don't 
you  think  that  looks  better?  " 

Rilly  made  a  face  at  Fuson  and  Cleaverage, 
and  laughed. 

"No  need  to  ask  her  which  nor  whether,"  said 
Lance  nonchalantly.  "Any  place  I  am  is  bound 
to  suit  Callista.  I  intend  that  my  house  shall  be 
the  best  in  the  Turkey  Tracks;  but  if  it  wasn't 
she'd  never  find  it  out,  long  as  /  was  there." 

Again  there  was  a  chorus  of  appreciative 
laughter. 

"How's  that,  Callista  —  is  it  so  for  a  fact?" 
inquired  Fuson,  eager  to  see  the  game  go  on. 

Callista  opened  her  beautiful  eyes  wide,  and 
smiled  with  lazy  scorn. 

"  Truly,  I'm  suited  with  whatever  Lance  Cleaver- 
age builds,  and  wherever  and  whenever  he  builds. 
Let  it  be  what  it  may,  it's  nothing  to  me." 

"  You  Rilly ! ' '  called  a  shrill  feminine  voice  from 
the  direction  of  the  church.  "  Bring  the  basket." 

"Help  me  with  it,  Buck,"  said  Aurilla,  and  the 
two  started  down  the  slope  together. 

"Now,"  suggested  Lance,  with  an  affectation 
of  reluctance,  "if  the  rest  of  you-all  don't  mind 
giving  us  the  place  here,  I  reckon  Callista's  got 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  1 1 

a  heap  that  she  wants  to  say  to  me,  and  she's 
ashamed  to  speak  out  before  folks." 

The  mad  project  of  a  Sunday  dance,  which  no- 
body but  Ola  Derf  had  entertained  for  a  moment, 
was  thus  tacitly  dropped.  There  was  a  general 
snickering  at  Lance's  impudent  assumption. 
Again  Callista  seemed  too  placidly  contemptuous 
to  care  to  make  denial.  Boys  got  up  from  their 
lounging  positions  on  the  grass,  girls  shook  out 
their  skirts,  and  two  and  two  the  young  folks 
began  to  straggle  toward  the  gray  little  church. 

"You're  a  mighty  accommodatin'  somebody," 
observed  Lance,  dropping  lightly  on  the  grass  at 
Callista 's  feet.  "  I  have  been  told  by  some  that 
you'd  make  a  contentious  wife;  but  looks  to  me 
like  you're  settin'  out  to  be  powerful  easy  goin'. 
Ain't  got  a  word  to  say  about  how  many  rooms 
in  the  house,  nor  whar  the  shelves  is  to  be,  nor 
nothin'  —eh?" 

Reckless  of  time  or  place  he  reached  up,  put  a 
finger  under  her  chin,  and  turned  her  face  toward 
him,  puckering  his  lips  meditatively  as  though 
he  meant  to  kiss  her  —  or  to  whistle.  He  got  a 
swift,  stinging  slap  for  his  pains,  and  Callista  faced 
around  on  the  rock  where  she  sat  to  put  herself 
as  far  from  him  as  might  be. 

"Who  said  anything  about  wives  and  hus- 
bands?" she  demanded.  "I  was  talking  about 
you  building  on  yo'  land.  Hit's  nothin'  to  me. 
I  never  expect  to  live  in  the  houses  you  build, 


12  Lance  Cleaverage 

nor  so  much  as  set  foot  in  'em.  When  you  named 
that  girl  that  was  tryin'  to  wed  you,  I  shorely 
thought  you  must  have  been  meanin'  Ola  Derf. 
As  for  me,  if  you  heard  me  talkin'  of  the  house 
I  expected  to  live  in,  you'd  hear  a  plenty  - 
because  I'm  particular.  I  ain't  a-going  to  put 
up  with  no  puncheon  floor  in  my  best  room.  Hit's 
got  to  be  boards,  and  planed  at  that.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  break  my  back  scouring  puncheons 
for  no  man." 

Lance  nodded,  with  half  closed  eyes.  It  was 
plain  he  got  her  message.  One  guessed  that  the 
house  would  be  made  to  please  her,  and,  too, 
that  he  liked  her  the  better  for  being  fastidious. 

The  two  were  apparently  alone  together;  but 
neither  Ola  Derf  nor  Flenton  Hands  was  among 
the  young  people  moving  away  down  the  fur- 
ther slope.  Lance  gazed  after  their  retreating 
friends  and  heaved  a  lugubrious  sigh. 

"Well,  looks  like  they've  all  started  off  and 
left  me  for  you  and  you  for  me,"  he  commented 
sadly. 

"Have  they?"  inquired  Callista  without  in- 
terest. "They  show  mighty  poor  judgment." 

"Same  sort  of  judgment  I'm  showing,  settin' 
here  talking  to  you,  when  I  might  as  well  spend 
my  time  with  a  good-lookin'  gal,"  retorted  Lance 
promptly. 

"The  Lord  knows  you  waste  yo'  time  talking 
to  me,"  Callista  sent  back  to  him  with  a  musing, 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  13 

unruffled  smile  on  her  finely  cut  lips.  "Your 
settin'  up  to  me  would  sure  be  foolishness." 

"Settin'  up  to  you?"  -Lance  took  his  knees 
into  an  embrace  and  looked  quizzically  at  her 
as  she  reclined  above  him,  milk-white  and  pink, 
blue-eyed  and  flaxen-haired,  a  creature  to  cuddle 
and  kiss  one  would  have  said,  yet  with  a  gall- 
bag  under  her  tongue  for  him  always.  "Me  set- 
tin'  up  to  you?  "  He  repeated  the  words  with  a 
bubble  of  apparently  unsubduable  amusement  in 
his  tone.  "I  reckon  you're  a-doin'  the  settin' 
up ;  everybody  seems  to  understand  it  so.  I  just 
mentioned  that  the  rest  of  the  folks  had  left  you 
and  me  alone  together,  and  I  was  goin'  on  to  say 
that  I  began  to  suffer  in  the  prospect  of  offerin' 
you  my  company  up  to  the  church-house.  Lord, 
some  gals  will  make  courtin'  out  of  anything!" 

A  subdued  snicker  sounded  from  the  screen  of 
leafage  behind  the  spring.  Several  young  people 
lingered  there  for  the  fun  of  hearing  Lance  Cleaver- 
age  and  Callista  Gentry  fuss.  The  red  began  to 
show  itself  in  the  girl's  smooth,  fair  cheeks.  She 
caught  her  wide  hat  by  its  strings  and  got  suddenly 
to  her  feet. 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Lance  Cleaver- 
age,"  she  said  coldly,  "  I  never  took  enough  notice 
of  you  to  see  was  you  courtin'  me  or  some  other 
girl;  and  I'll  thank  you  now  to  step  yourself  out 
of  my  way  and  let  me  get  on  to  the  church-house. 
I've  got  to  lead  the  tribble,  come  service  time.  I 


14  Lance  Cleaverage 

can't  stand  fooling  here  with  you,  nor  werry  my- 
self to  notice  are  you  courting  me  or  somebody 
else." 

She  held  her  graceful  head  very  high.  If  she 
swung  the  hat  by  its  strings  a  thought  too  rapidly, 
it  was  the  only  sign  she  gave  of  any  excitement  as 
she  gained  the  path. 

Cleaverage  ranged  himself  beside  her,  leaving 
the  banjo  in  the  bushes.  "All  right  —  all  right," 
he  remarked  in  a  pacifying  tone.  "  I'm  willin' 
to  walk  up  to  the  door  with  you,  if  that's  what's 
troublin'  you  so  greatly;  but  I  don't  want  to  go 
in  and  sit  alongside  of  you  on  the  middle  seats. 
You  take  your  place  on  the  women's  side,  like  a 
good  gal,  and  let  me  have  some  peace,  settin'  over 
with  the  men." 

For  a  moment  she  was  dumb.  Half  a  dozen 
had  pushed  into  view,  and  were  listening  to  them 
now.  They  all  understood  that  Lance  knew 
well  enough  she  must  sit  with  the  singers,  yet 
his  open  refusal  to  accompany  her  to  the  middle 
seats,  where  the  courting  couples  generally  found 
place,  was  not  the  less  galling. 

"Tell  him  you  won't  never  step  yo'  foot  in 
church  beside  him,  Callista,"  prompted  a  man's 
voice,  and  Flenton  Hands  stepped  out  on  the  path, 
twisting  a  bit  of  sassafras  in  his  fingers  and  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  with  quick  shif tings  of 
his  gray  eyes. 

Lance   laughed   radiantly  but  soundlessly,   his 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  15 

face  and  eyes  shining  with  mirthful  defiance.     The 
girl  looked  down  and  trifled  with  her  hat  ribbons. 

"Why  don't  you  say  it?"  inquired  Cleaverage 
at  length.  Hands  leaned  forward  and  stared 
eagerly  at  her,  his  mouth  a  little  open  and  his 
breath  coming  quick.  He  had  always  been  the 
most  pertinacious  of  Callista's  followers ;  an  older 
man  than  any  of  the  others,  he  brought  to  bear 
on  his  wooing  the  persistence  and  determination 
of  his  years. 

Callista  just  glanced  at  the  younger  man,  and 
let  her  gaze  rest  on  Hands. 

"  What's  the  use  of  telling  him  what  he  already 
knows  mighty  well  and  good?"  she  said  finally. 

"Give  me  the  pleasure  of  walking  up  with  you 
this  morning,  then,"  Hands  encroached  eagerly. 

With  negligent  composure  Callista  looked  about 
her.  She  was  not  willing  to  walk  with  Lance  - 
she  doubted  if  he  would  ask  her  again.  She  was 
not  willing  to  discredit  him  and  go  with  Hands. 
She  was  determined  that  Cleaverage  should  not 
walk  with  another  girl. 

"Come  on,  Ola,"  she  coolly  addressed  the  figure 
plainly  to  be  seen  behind  Hands.  "  Let's  you  and 
me  hurry  over  and  see  what  hymns  Brother  Drum- 
right  is  going  to  use.  You  sing  mighty  good 
counter,  and  I'd  like  to  have  you  next  to  me." 

Ola  Derf  could  not  refuse.  It  was  almost  equal 
to  social  rehabilitation  to  be  allowed  to  walk  with 
Callista  Gentry  from  the  spring  to  the  church,  to 


1 6  Lance  Cleaverage 

sit  beside  her  in  the  singing  seats ;  yet  the  brown 
girl  cast  uneasy  glances  backward  till  she  saw 
Lance,  whistling  melodiously,  turn  to  the  blooming 
azalea  bush  and  catch  up  his  banjo  from  it.  She 
stopped  in  her  tracks,  holding  Callista  back. 

"  Whar  —  whar  ye  gwine,  Lance?  "  she  inquired 
anxiously.  If  Cleaverage  was  not  coming  to 
church  it  would  scarcely  be  worth  while  for  her 
to  torture  herself  with  an  hour  of  old  Preacher 
Drumright's  holding  forth.  "Whar  ye  gwine?" 
she  reiterated,  as  the  other  girl  pulled  her  sleeve 
and  attempted  to  hurry  on. 

"Whar  you  and  Callista  ca'n't  come,"  returned 
Lance,  speaking  over  his  shoulder  unceremoniously. 

"Ain't  ye  gwine  to  stay  to  preachin'?"  per- 
sisted the  brown  girl.  "  I  --  I  thought  ye  was,  or 
I  —  ain't  ye  gwine  to  stay?  " 

"No,"  drawled  Cleaverage.  "I  just  brought 
the  banjo  to  please  Callista  —  because  I  promised 
her  I  would,  when  she  begged  me  to.  I  had  no 
notion  of  staying  to  listen  to  Drumright." 

"Come  on  —  if  you're  a-coming,"  Callista  ad- 
monished the  Derf  girl  with  a  little  flash  of  temper 
which  Lance  did  not  fail  to  observe,  any  more  than 
she  missed  the  chuckle  with  which  he  received  it. 

"Well,  I'm  a-goin'  with  ye,"  announced  Ola. 
She  let  go  Callista's  arm,  and  turned  back  to  where 
Lance  was  taking  a  shadowy  path  into  the  forest. 

"I  told  you,  gals  couldn't  come,"  Cleaverage 
bantered  her.  But  Ola  persisted. 


A  Pair  of  Haggards  17 

"  I  can  go  wherever  you  can  go.  Lance  — 
wait!  Wait  for  me  —  I'm  a-comin'." 

"Callista'll  be  mad,"  objected  Cleaverage. 
"  She  begged  and  begged  me,  and  I  wouldn't  leave 
her  come  along  of  me;  now  if  I  take  you,  she'll 
be  mad." 

"Like  I  cared  where  you  went  or  who  went 
with  you!"  Callista  retorted,  eyes  shining  blue 
fire,  head  crested.  "Come  on,  Mr.  Hands,  it's 
time  we  were  stepping,  if  we  want  to  get  in  to  go 
through  the  hymns." 

"And  you  will  sit  alongside  of  me?  "  Hands's 
voice  pleaded  close  to  her  ear. 

Ola  and  Lance  were  of  the  same  age ;  the  blond 
girl,  lingering  half  indignant,  could  remember 
how  hardy,  free  little  Ola  Derf  used  to  play  with 
the  boys,  always  singling  Lance  Cleaverage  out 
as  the  companion  for  her  truant  expeditions. 
Now  in  mute  denial  of  Hands's  petition,  Cal- 
lista shook  her  head,  and  in  doing  so  managed 
to  glance  round  and  get  a  tormenting  glimpse  of 
Ola  and  Lance  disappearing  together  between  the 
trees.  Under  the  green  domes  of  oak  and  lirio- 
dendron,  the  latter  starred  all  over  now  with 
orange-tawny  tulips,  she  saw  them  pass.  Wine  of 
summer  was  in  the  veins  of  the  forest.  Even  the 
sober  oaks,  wreathed  like  bacchanals,  overflowed 
with  sweetness  from  their  wrappings  of  wild  grape. 
The  two  with  the  banjo  took  their  way  down  a 
steep  path  toward  a  jade-green  pool,  a  still  reach 


1 8  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  water  arched  over  by  fantastic  tangles  of  laurel 
and  rhododendron,  black  as  the  tents  of  Kedar, 
lighted  only  by  the  flash  of  a  water-fall  that 
caught  the  sun.  This  was  the  baptismal  place. 

The  daughter  of  the  house  of  Gentry  turned 
her  face  resolutely  toward  respectability  and  the 
church,  albeit  there  was  no  joy  in  the  countenance. 
Strung  out  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  were  courting 
couples  bent  toward  the  same  destination.  To 
these  young  hearts  it  seemed  well  worth  while 
to  have  lain  under  the  heel  of  winter  to  attain 
this  marvelous  summer  morning  with  its  green- 
clothed  forest,  its  wreathing  of  blossoms  where 
they  passed.  Clean  and  cool  as  a  bell's  note,  the 
song  of  a  thrush  deep  in  the  wood  spilled  jeweled 
drops  of  sound  through  the  trembling  branches 
overhead.  A  catbird's  sonata  rippled  boldly  out 
upon  the  very  path.  A  canopy  of  bloom  was 
woven  and  flung  over  the  spring  by  the  black, 
knotty  fingers  of  the  laurel.  Bees  tumbled  happily 
in  the  bosom  of  the  fairest  drooping  clusters,  their 
hum  nearly  drowned  by  the  heavy  gurgle  of  the 
creek  water. 

Callista  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  Summer 
and  sun  and  light  and  love  everywhere  —  and 
she  was  walking  up  to  the  church-house  with 
Flenton  Hands,  while  back  on  some  forest  by- 
path, with  music  at  his  finger  ends  and  Ola  Derf 
beside  him,  Lance  Cleaverage  forgot  her  with  a 
laugh. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    UP-SITTING. 

GRANNY  YEAR  WOOD  — the  grandmother 
of  Flenton  Hands  and  his  sisters  —  was 
dead.  The  work-hardened  old  body  had  parted 
with  its  flame  of  life  reluctantly ;  for  nearly  a  year 
she  had  been  declining  toward  the  end ;  and  during 
the  last  months  the  family  had  cared  for  her  almost 
day  and  night.  They  were  worn  out  with  the  toil 
of  it  before  she  herself  wore  out.  But  now  it  was 
all  over.  The  first  outburst  of  noisy  lamentation, 
which  is  fairly  conventional  in  the  Southern  moun- 
tains, was  past.  The  corpse  had  been  decently 
composed  on  a  rude  plank  scaffold,  while  Octavia 
Gentry  and  Roxy  Griever  took  charge  of  the 
household  and  began  to  order  things  in  that  curious 
half -ecclesiastical  fashion  which  follows  the  foot- 
steps of  death. 

It  was  near  noon,  and  Octavia  dished  up  the 
dinner,  while  Roxy  paid  more  attention  to  the  im- 
pending funeral  arrangements.  Before  the  meal 
was  over,  young  people  began  to  come  in,  though 
none  could  quite  say  how  they  had  received  word. 
The  girls  made  proffer  of  assistance,  and  swiftly 
the  table  was  cleared  away,  the  dishes  washed, 
and  the  house  and  surroundings  put  in  immacu- 

19 


20  Lance  Cleaverage 

late  order.  Work  in  the  fields  was  stopped,  that 
messengers  might  be  sent,  one  on  horseback  to 
notify  distant-dwelling  kin,  another  with  a  wagon 
to  buy  the  coffin  down  in  Hepzibah,  a  third  afoot 
to  arrange  with  the  strong  young  men  of  the 
family  connection  about  helping  to  dig  the  grave. 
All  the  flowers  in  the  dooryard  were  gathered 
and  laid  round  the  corpse.  The  withered  old 
face  was  covered  with  a  damp  cloth,  and  then  a 
borrowed  sheet  was  drawn  smoothly  over  the 
whole  mound.  The  Widow  Griever  was  so  deeply 
versed  in  the  etiquette  of  such  occasions,  and  so 
satisfyingly  exacting  on  all  points,  as  to  make  an 
undertaker  even  more  highly  superfluous  than  he 
would  usually  have  been  among  these  simple 
folk.  What  with  garments  and  accessories  she 
had  brought  from  her  own  scant  widow's  ward- 
robe, and  articles  hastily  borrowed  from  the 
nearer  neighbors,  she  managed  inside  of  two 
hours  to  have  Little  Liza  and  her  two  sisters  - 
the  mother  of  the  family  was  dead  some  years 
ago  —  clad  in  black  and  seated  in  state  inferior 
only  to  that  of  the  dead. 

More  flowers  were  brought  by  girls  and  small 
boys  from  the  neighbors'  yards  —  yellow  and  pur- 
ple and  red  were  the  colors  mostly  in  bloom  now,  and 
those  which  would  have  been  favored  for  this  occa- 
sion. Roxy  gravely  arranged  them  and  set  them  in 
place.  She  had  veiled  the  looking-glass  and  stopped 
the  clock  as  soon  as  she  came  into  the  house. 


The  Up-Sitting  21 

"A  body  cain't  be  too  careful  about  all  these 
here  things,"  she  said  with  a  solemn  sniff.  "  Hit's 
easy  at  a  time  like  this  for  something  to  be  did 
that  crosses  the  luck." 

Women  came  and  went  through  the  open  doors, 
silent  almost  as  the  little  breeze  that  played  be- 
tween. Everybody  wore  the  same  expression  of 
mournful  acquiescence  in  the  natural  order  of 
things.  Greetings  were  exchanged  in  low  tones. 
Callista,  carrying  a  basket  of  garden  asters,  came 
up  the  front  walk,  looking  openly  for  her  mother, 
guarding  a  little  warily  against  Flenton  Hands 's 
approach.  Some  girls  hurrying  out  to  seek  ferns 
in  the  low  places  of  the  wood  met  her,  and  she 
turned  back  with  them,  joining  her  activities  to 
theirs  and  making  a  wreath  of  the  flowers  she 
had  brought. 

Flenton  Hands  was  thirty  years  old.  To  have 
arrived  at  this  age  unmarried  is,  in  the  mountains, 
in  some  measure  a  reproach.  True,  he  aligned 
himself  sharply  with  the  religious  element  of  the 
community,  and  this,  when  youthful  masculinity 
is  ever  apt  to  choose  the  broad  way  where  there 
is  more  company,  bespoke  for  him  a  certain  in- 
dulgence or  toleration  that  would  have  been 
denied  a  typical  old  bachelor. 

He  was  cantankerous  old  Preacher  Drumright's 
right  hand  at  all  times,  and  Drumright  was  safe 
always  to  approve  him.  He  was  the  kind  of  man 
who  seeks  the  acquaintance  and  company  of  those 


22  Lance  Cleaverage 

well-to-do  and  older  than  himself,  paying  a  sober 
court  to  respectability  and  money,  and  thus  coming 
eventually  to  be  rated  as  one  of  the  elders,  while 
he  yet  held  the  dubious  position  of  an  unmar- 
ried male  who  shilly-shallied  in  the  matter  of 
wedding. 

No  actual  scandal  ever  attached  to  Flenton 
Hands.  If  there  were  improprieties  to  be  debited 
against  him,  he  kept  such  matters  out  of  the  sight 
of  Turkey  Track  people,  and  only  a  vague  rumor 
of  something  discreditable  associated  itself  with 
his  Valley  connections  to  warrant  young  girls  in 
pouting  their  lips  and  referring  to  him  as  "that 
old  Flenton  Hands  "  ;  while  their  mothers  reproved 
and  told  them  that  he  was  one  of  the  best  young 
men,  as  well  as  one  of  the  best  matches,  in  the 
neighborhood. 

So  far  as  personal  appearance  went,  he  was 
well  enough,  yet  with  a  curious  suggestion  of 
solidity  as  though  his  flesh  might  have  been  of 
oak  or  iron.  The  countenance,  too,  with  its  round, 
high  cheek-bones,  had  an  unpleasing  immobility, 
resting  always  in  a  somewhat  slyish  cast  of  ex- 
pression which  the  odd  slant  of  the  light  gray 
eyes  gave  to  it.  For  the  rest,  he  was  thin-lipped, 
with  thick,  straight,  dark  hair,  and  an  almost 
urban  air  of  gentlemanliness,  an  effort  at  gentility 
which,  in  a  shorter  and  more  cheerful  individual, 
would  have  been  smug. 

"Flenton's  gone  for  the  coffin,"  Sallie  Blevins 


The  Up-Sitting  23 

said.  "He  always  tends  to  it  when  there's  any- 
thing to  do  that  calls  for  money  to  be  spent." 

"I  reckon  he's  got  a  plenty,"  supplied  little 
Rilly  Trigg ;  "  but  someway  I  never  could  like  his 
looks  greatly.  There,  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that  —  and  his  granny  laying  dead  in  the  house 
that-a-way." 

Callista  did  not  add  her  opinion  to  this  dis- 
cussion, but  finding  that  she  was  in  no  danger  of 
meeting  Flenton,  hurried  the  others  promptly 
up  to  the  house.  As  soon  as  she  came  in  sight, 
Little  Liza,  six  feet  tall,  with  a  jimber-jaw  and 
bass  voice,  came  and  fell  upon  her  neck  and  wept. 
Little  Liza  Hands  got  her  descriptive  adjective 
from  being  the  third  of  the  name.  To-day  she 
was  especially  prominent,  because  Granny  Year- 
wood,  the  first  Eliza,  ninety  pounds  of  fiery  energy 
and  ambition,  had  at  last  laid  down  the  burden 
of  her  days.  Her  daughter,  Eliza  the  second, 
had  lain  beside  her  husband,  Eliphalet  Hands, 
in  churchyard  mold  these  twenty  years ;  and  her 
big  daughter,  with  the  bovine  profile,  the  great 
voice,  and  the  timid,  fluttered  soul  of  a  small 
child,  remained  in  the  world,  the  only  Eliza  Hands 
—yet  still  Little  Liza  to  those  about  her.  And  for 
her  name's  sake,  Little  Liza  was  chief  mourner. 

The  Hands  girls  all  had  a  sort  of  adoring  attitude 
toward  Callista  Gentry.  Flenton  wanted  her, 
and  they  had  been  trying  to  get  Flenton  every- 
thing he  wanted  since  he  was  small  enough  to 


24  Lance  Cleaverage 

cry  for  the  moon,  and  strike  at  the  hand  which 
failed  to  pluck  it  down  for  him.  Callista  had  not 
intended  to  stay.  She  was  to  be  over  later  in 
the  day  —  or  the  same  night,  rather  —  with  the 
young  people  who  sat  up.  But  Little  Liza  man- 
aged to  detain  her  on  one  pretext  or  another 
until  the  coffin  arrived  and  Granny  was  finally 
placed  therein. 

"Just  look  at  them  thar  shiny  trimmin's  on 
that  thar  coffin,"  admired  Little  Liza,  jogging 
Callista's  elbow.  "That's  Flent.  That's  my 
brother  Flent.  They  ain't  a  thing  he  grudges 
to  them  he  loves." 

Callista  uttered  a  soothing  and  satisfactory 
reply,  and  was  making  her  escape,  when  Hands 
himself  overtook  her  at  the  door.  His  features 
were  drawn  to  an  expression  of  great  solemnity, 
one  which  suited  them  ill,  for  he  had  the  up- 
slanting  brow,  the  pointed  face  and  the  narrow 
eye  that,  lightened  by  mirth,  may  be  antic,  but 
without  the  touch  of  humor  is  forbidding  and 
even  sinister. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  us,  air  you?"  he 
inquired  in  a  carefully  muffled  tone,  as  though 
indeed  Granny  was  sleeping  lightly  and  might 
be  easily  wakened. 

"Mother's  going  to  stay  now,  and  I'm  coming 
back  to-night,"  Callista  hastened  to  say. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  air,"  returned  Flenton, 
with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  In  these  times  of  affliction, 


The  Up-Sitting  25 

hit's  a  powerful  comfort  to  me  to  have  you  in 
sight." 

Callista  edged  closer  to  the  others.  She  was 
not  unwilling  to  be  seen  standing  whispering  with 
Flenton.  He  was  a  good  match,  a  creditable  cap- 
tive of  any  girl's  bow  and  spear;  yet  she  did  not 
enjoy  his  love-making,  least  of  all  now  that  it  was 
mingled  with  this  ill-sorted  solemnity. 

"Flenton,  have  they  sent  word  to  your  Uncle 
Billy's  folks?"  asked  Octavia  Gentry,  making 
her  appearance  in  the  doorway  behind  the  two. 

"Yes'm,"  returned  Flenton,  not  pleased  to  be 
interrupted,  yet  necessarily  civil  to  the  woman 
whom  he  hoped  to  have  for  a  mother-in-law. 

"And  does  the  Bushareses  and  Adam  Venable 
and  his  wife  know  hit?  Is  Mary  a-comin'?  "  she 
pursued  the  catalog.  "What  about  the  Aspel 
Yearwoods  out  in  Big  Buck  Gap  —  has  anyone 
went  out  there?  And  Faithful  Yearwood,  that 
married  Preacher  Crowley  —  ain't  they  livin' 
down  in  the  Tatum  neighborhood?" 

"  Yes'm,  they  air,"  confirmed  Flenton.  "  Cousin 
Ladd  'lowed  to  send  one  o'  his  chaps  on  a  nag  to 
Faithful  Crowley's  folks;  and  Ab  Straley  was  to 
let  them  at  Big  Buck  Gap  know."  Though  im- 
patient, he  made  a  decent  end.  When  he  looked 
around,  Callista  had  quietly  moved  away. 

The  day's  work  was  over;  men  and  boys  began 
to  arrive  at  the  Hands  place,  some  carrying  Ian- 


26  Lance  Cleaverage 

terns.  From  early  candle  lighting  till  near  the 
turn  of  the  night  the  house  would  be  full;  then 
the  elders,  men  and  women  on  whose  day  labor  a 
family  must  depend,  would  begin  to  slip  away, 
except  a  few  old  widowers  and  bachelors  who 
might  remain  smoking  on  the  steps  outside;  and 
a  circle  of  young  folks  who  would  be  left  sitting 
in  the  lamplight  and  fireshine  of  the  main  room. 
Flenton  knew  of  old  experience  just  how  the 
night  would  go.  He  longed  inexpressibly  to  be 
one  of  those  up-sitting  young  people  that  he  might 
push  his  chair  close  to  Callista  Gentry's  and  whis- 
per to  her  in  the  privilege  of  the  hour.  Yet  he 
was  held  back  by  a  consideration  for  his  dignity 
as  one  of  the  bereaved. 

"Miz.  Gentry,"  said  Roxy  Griever,   "will  you 

stay  and  he'p  with  the  supper  —  they  aim  to  have 

a  reg'lar  meal  put  on  the  table  at  about  midnight 

—  settin'  up  with  the  dead 'is  mighty  wearin'." 

"  I  'low  the  gals  would  rather  tend  to  that  their- 
selves,"  deprecated  Octavia,  mildly.  "I  mind 
how  it  was  when  I  was  a  gal.  I  never  did  want 
some  old  women  pesterin'  around  at  sech  a 
time." 

She  cast  a  swift  glance  to  where  Callista  sat, 
her  fair  head  bent,  the  lamplight  upon  its  bright 
burden  of  corn-colored  braids,  Lance  Cleaverage, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  standing  before  the  girl 
regarding  her,  and  evidently  about  to  say  some- 
thing. 


The  Up-Sitting  27 

The  Widow  Griever's  look  followed  Octavia's 
to  the  front  room  in  which  half-a-dozen  couples 
had  paired  off,  whispering,  giggling  a  bit  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  with  an  occasional  undernote 
of  hysteria  in  the  giggles. 

"  That's  jest  the  reason,"  she  announced, 
straightening  up  from  the  hearth  where  she  had 
been  stirring  a  vast  boiler  full  of  very  strong 
coffee.  "The  gals  that  lets  tham  men  have  their 
way  is  foolish.  They'll  rue  the  day  they  done  so. 
Men  persons  would  always  have  the  old  folks 
leave,  and  the  young  folks  run  things  to  suit 
theirselves;  but  I  don't  believe  in  sech." 

On  the  mental  horizon  of  the  Widow  Griever 
there  hovered  ever  a  vast,  dun,  evil-promising 
cloud  known  as  "tham  men."  She  never  alluded 
to  the  opposite  sex  in  any  way  other  than  col- 
lectively, and  named  them  in  this  manner,  which 
held  in  it  all  of  reproach.  Her  father  —  gentle 
soul  —  presented  himself  to  her  under  the  name 
of  Poppy,  as  somewhat  set  apart  from  the  raging 
mass  of  predatory  males  addressed  more  or  less 
openly  and  directly  to  destruction.  Poppy  and 
a  young  brother,  Sylvanus,  though  belonging  to 
the  vicious  sex  and  thereby  under  suspicion,  were 
possible ;  but  Lance,  the  lawless  and  debonair,  was 
not  only  one  of  the  enemy  --he  was  Roxy 
Griever's  horrible  example.  The  church-house 
where  "tham  men"  were  kept  on  the  one  side  so 
that  the  gentler  half  of  creation  might  sit  peace- 


28  Lance  Cleaverage 

fully  on  the  other,  was  to  her  thinking  the  only 
safe  and  proper  place  of  public  gathering. 

"  I  tell  you,  Miz.  Gentry,"  she  now  pursued,  her 
reprehending  eye  going  past  the  person  she  answered 
to  fasten  itself  on  Lance's  lounging  figure  and  note 
the  careless,  upward  fling  of  his  head,  "  I  tell  you 
that  I  ain't  never  been  back  to  the  Settlement 
sence  I  left  it  a  widder.  What  would  I  be  doin' 
down  thar  amongst  all  tham  men?  But  Lance, 
he  goes  down,  and  every  time  he  goes,  I  think 
he  gits  more  of  the  Old  Boy  in  him,  'caze  evil 
is  a-walkin'  around  at  noonday  down  in  tham 
settlements,  and  you  cain't  be  safe  anywhars." 

"Might  just  as  well  quit  being  scared  then," 
drawled  Lance's  soft  voice.  He  had  stepped 
noiselessly  to  the  door,  at  Callista's  suggestion 
to  see  if  the  coffee  were  ready. 

"You  Lance  Cleaverage!"  returned  his  sister 
in  a  carefully  suppressed  tone  that  was  sufficiently 
acid  to  make  up  for  its  lack  of  volume,  "  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  quit  bein'  scared  for  yo'  say-so.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  name  such  —  in  the  house 
with  the  dead  this  a-way.  No,  the  coffee'll  not 
be  ready  for  somewhile  yet.  When  hit  is,  you'ns 
can  fetch  cheers  and  he'p  yourselves  to  it.  I'm 
a-goin'  to  show  Miz.  Gentry  my  gospel  quilt  that 
I  brung  with  me  to  lay  over  Granny." 

Roxanna  Cleaverage  had  married  rather  late  in 
life.  Girlhood  had  been  but  an  unsatisfactory 
season  to  her ;  young  women  in  a  primitive  society 


The  Up-Sitting  29 

are  not  given  much  prominence,  and  Roxy  had 
neither  beauty  nor  charm  to  command  what  was 
to  be  had.  Lacking  these,  she  made  a  great 
point  of  religion,  which  led  incidentally  to  her 
marriage  with  John  Griever,  an  itinerant  preacher, 
and  brought  her  two  blissful  years  and  Mary  Ann 
Martha.  As  the  wife  of  a  preacher  she  had  been 
able  to  assume  some  dignity,  to  instruct,  to  lay 
down  the  law,  to  keep  herself  measurably  in  the 
public  eye. 

When  she  was  widowed,  it  was  bitter  to  her  to 
go  back  to  Kimbro  Cleaverage's  poor  home  and 
drop  once  more  into  obscurity.  She  yearned 
desperately  to  wear  some  mark  of  distinction,  to 
have  at  least  some  semblance  of  social  power. 
And  in  direct  response  to  this  longing,  there  came 
a  vision  in  the  night,  and  Roxy  rose  up  and  took 
her  bits  of  quilt  pieces  and  began  to  fashion  a  new 
thing.  Other  women  might  have  the  Rising 
Sun,  the  Log  Cabin,  the  Piney-blow,  the  Basket 
of  Posies;  she  had  conceived  and  would  execute 
a  master  work  in  the  way  of  quilts,  quite  outside 
the  line  of  these.  Roxy  lacked  entirely  that  crude 
art  sense  which  finds  its  expression  in  the  moun- 
tain woman's  beautifully  pieced  quilt;  she  only 
burned  to  startle  admiration,  to  command  re- 
spectful attention  by  some  means.  The  big 
square  of  muslin  was  bought  at  the  expense  of 
considerable  pinching  and  saving,  and  she  began 
to  set  upon  it  those  figures  which  had  occupied 


30  Lance  Cleaverage 

her  mind,  her  time  and  her  fingers  through  the 
years  since.  Clumsily  done,  with  no  feeling  what- 
ever for  form,  proportion,  or  color,  she  poured 
into  it  a  passion  of  desirous  energy  which  yet  pro- 
duced its  effect.  The  quilt  was  always  at  hand 
for  such  occasions  as  this,  or  when  the  Presiding 
Elder  came  on  one  of  his  rare  visits.  And  it  was 
useful  to  bring  out  if  there  were  trouble,  if  some- 
one needed  to  be  overawed  or  to  be  threeped 
down.  But  that  member  of  the  Cleaverage  Clan 
who  in  her  eyes  most  needed  threeping  was  proof 
against  the  gospel  quilt.  She  had  never  put  it 
forth  for  Lance's  confusion  since  the  day  he  took 
such  an  expressive  interest  in  the  undertaking,  and 
advised  -  -  in  the  presence  of  Preacher  Drum- 
right  —  the  adding  of  a  sightly  little  border  of 
devils  around  the  semi-sacred  square. 

"A  fine  row  o'  davils  would  help  the  looks  of 
it  mightily,  Sis'  Roxy,"  he  had  argued.  "They're 
named  frequent  in  the  Bible,  and  I'd  cut  'em  out 
for  you.  I  would  sure  enough,"  he  laughed,  as 
she  looked  heavy  reproach  at  him.  "You  give 
me  a  sharp  pair  o'  shears  and  I  can  cut  out  as  fine 
a  lookin'  davil  as  you  or  anybody  need  wish  for!  " 

After  that  she  let  him  alone,  aware  that  his 
more  gifted  eye  criticized  her  failures,  even  when 
he  did  not  seek  the  circle  about  the  exhibited  quilt 
and  wilfully  mistake  her  angels  for  turkey  buz- 
zards. 

The  two  older  women  now  passed  into  that 


The  Up-Sitting  31 

cool,  shaded  little  chamber  where  lay  the  dead. 
The  windows  were  open,  and  the  white  curtains 
blew  gustily  in  the  night  breeze,  making  the  can- 
dle Roxy  carried  flicker.  She  set  it  on  a  high  shelf, 
and  got  out  a  thick  roll  of  stuff,  unwrapping  and 
spreading  forth  her  contribution  to  the  solemnity 
of  the  occasion. 

"Hit's  jest  the  top  on  it,"  she  communicated 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  I  hain't  got  the  heart  to 
put  it  in  frames  and  quilt  it,  'caze  I  keep  thinkin' 
of  something  else  that  ort  to  go  on  it,  time  I  say 
I'm  done.  Cur'us  that  I  ain't  never  showed 
it  to  you  before."  (This  was  a  common  formula 
with  the  widow,  and  nobody  ever  disputed  it). 
"See,  that's  Adam  and  Eve,  to  begin  on,"  and 
she  indicated  a  pair  of  small,  archaic  figures  cut 
from  blue  checked  gingham,  their  edges  turned 
neatly  in  and  whipped  to  the  white  domestic  back- 
ground —  when  one  thinks  of  it,  a  domestic  back- 
ground is  fairly  proper  for  Adam  and  Eve.  "That 
ginghams  they'  cut  out'n  was  a  piece  o'  John's 
shirt  —  the  last  one  I  made  him." 

"Tut,  tut,"  responded  Octavia,  making  that 
little  clicking  sound  with  the  tongue  which  does- 
duty  variously  to  express  sympathy,  reprehension, 
surprise,  or  deprecation.  She  regarded  the  artistic 
achievement  before  her  with  attention  and  respect. 
One  could  readily  distinguish  Eve  from  Adam, 
because  Eve  was  endowed  with  petticoats, 
while  Adam  rejoiced  in  legs.  Of  course  Eve  had 


3* 

feet;  but  it  would  have  taken  someone  less  well 
acquainted  with  the  moral  character  of  the  Widow 
Griever  than  was  Octavia  Gentry  to  deduce  legs 
from  those  feet. 

"What's  that  thar?  "  she  made  the  customary 
inquiry,  putting  her  finger  on  a  twisty  bit  of  polka- 
dotted  calico.  "That  must  be  the  sarpent." 

"  Hit  air. ' '  Roxy  returned  the  expected  answer 
solemnly. 

The  Ancient  Evil  was  represented  as  standing 
sociably  on  his  tail,  facing  the  tempted  pair. 

"My!  Don't  he  look  feisty?"  commented  Oc- 
tavia, with  courteous  admiration.  "Watch  him 
jest  a-lickin'  out  his  tongue  in  Eve's  face.  Lord," 
she  sighed  conventionally,  "how  prone  women 
air  to  sin! " 

"  Women  ?  Huh !  "  snorted  Mrs.  Griever.  "  Not 
nigh  so  prone  as  tham  men.  Look-a-here,"  turn- 
ing the  quilt  to  get  at  the  Tree  of  Good  and  Evil ; 
"look  at  them  thar  apples.  Now  I  made  some 
of  'em  out  of  red  calico,  and  some  out  of  yellow. 
Do  you  think  I  ort  to  have  a  few  green,  Miz. 
Gentry?  Look  like  green  apples  is  mighty  sin- 
ful and  trouble  makin'." 

"I  don't  know,"  Octavia  debated,  as  she  ran 
her  fingers  over  a  brave  attempt  at  one  of  the 
Beasts  of  Revelation.  "You  might  add  a  few 
green  ones.  Hit  does  stand  to  reason  that  the 
Old  Boy  is  in  green  apples  more  than  in  ripe 
ones;  but  ef  them  that  Eve  tempted  Adam 


The  Up-Sitting  33 

with  had  been  green  —  do  you  reckon  he'd  'a' 
bit?" 

The  scandal  was  such  an  old  one,  that  Roxy 
was  evidently  a  little  irritated  at  its  revival. 

"Well,  o'  course,"  she  said  with  some  asperity, 
"a  body  cain't  gainsay  what's  in  the  Bible;  but 
I  have  my  doubts  about  that  thar  apple  fuss. 
Hit's  men  that  prints  the  Good  Book,  and  does 
about  with  it  —  not  women;  an'  I've  always  had 
a  feelin'  that  mo'  likely  hit  was  Adam  got  into 
that  apple  business  first." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  repeated  Octavia  doubt- 
fully. "  I  always  'lowed  the  Bible  was  the  Bible. 
But  what's  a-goin'  to  be  here?"  pointing  to  a 
sizable  blank  space. 

"Why,  that's  a  part  that  I  ain't  got  to  finish 
yet,"  explained  Roxy.  "Miz.  Abner  Dowst 
given  me  the  prettiest  piece  o'  goods  last  time  I 
was  at  her  house,  and  I  been  studyin'  whether 
to  use  hit  a-depicturin'  the  Queen  of  Sheba  or 
Phar'oh's  daughter;  and  then  I  thought  I'd  do 
better  to  show  up  Joseph  a-dreamin',  and  the  sun 
and  the  moon  and  eleven  stars  jist  over  his  head 
-  see,  they'd  set  around  sorter  biassin'  this-a- 
way,  betwixt  Adam-an'-Eve  and  this  golden  harp. 
Hit's  a  piece  of  that  dress  her  gals  all  had  on 
a-Sunday  —  you  know  Dows  the  always  gits  a 
bolt,  and  time  her  and  the  gals  all  has  a  dress  out 
of  hit,  and  him  a  shirt  and  the  boys  a  shirt  apiece, 
why  the  bolt's  about  gone.  Well,  this  time  that 


34  Lance  Cleaverage 

The 'dory  May,  she  axed  for  something  bright,  and 
he  was  bent  on  pleasin'  her,  so  he  picked  for  the 
brightest  thing  in  the  store.  Hit  looked  sort  o' 
gay  a-comin'  into  church,  one  behind  another; 
but  now  hit'll  do  fine  for  Joseph's  coat.  Ah,  law, 
Miz.  Gentry,  hit'll  be  right  here  in  my  quilt  long 
after  their  dresses  is  wore  out  and  forgot  about." 

"Yes,  indeed,  hit  will  that,  Sister  Griever,"  her 
listener  assented,  a  good  deal  impressed.  "  Is 
these  sorter  round  things  - 

"Them's  the  loaves  an'  fishes,"  Roxy  hastened 
to  elucidate.  "They  ain't  so  very  well  done,  ye 
see.  I  was  a-workin  on  them  when  I  hearn  that 
Granny  Yearwood  was  about  to  go,  an'  I  hurried 
'em  up,  'caze  I'd  promised  her  that  I'd  spread 
the  quilt  over  her  when  she  was  laid  out.  You 
he'p  me  with  it  now,  Miz.  Gentry,  and  we'll  fold  it 
back  this-a-way  so  as  not  to  show  the  part  that 
ain't  done." 

"Laws,  Miz.  Griever,"  said  Octavia,  as  the 
great  square,  with  its  many  small,  gaily  colored 
figures,  whipped  laboriously  into  place,  was  spread 
out  between  their  hands,  "I  don't  see  how  you 
ever  did  think  of  all  them  things." 

"  I  reckon  it  comes  from  havin'  a  preacher  for 
a  mate,"  returned  Roxy.  "Mr.  Griever,  he  was 
always  a  cotin'  scriptur'  round  the  house,  and 
now  he's  gone  I  remember  his  words  —  and  put 
'em  down  on  the  quilt,  as  a  body  may  say.  I 
love  to  have  it  by  me  to  work  on  in  time  of  trouble, 


The  Up-Sitting  35 

an'  I  love  to  put  it  on  the  bed  if  a  preacher  sleeps 
the  night  at  our  house.  Looks  like  a  body  ought 
to  have  good  dreams  un'neath  the  gospel  that- 
a-way.  Thar,  ain't  that  fixed  all  right  now? 
Cain't  we  leave  here?  I  'low  them  young  folks 
out  in  the  other  room  might  need  attention." 

Octavia  glanced  through  the  slightly  open  door 
and  saw  that  Lance  and  Callista  had  gone  into 
the  kitchen  alone  to  look  after  the  supper. 
They  were  talking  together,  and  the  mother  noted 
hopefully  that  neither  of  them  was  laughing,  and 
that  the  girl's  color  had  risen,  while  her  eyes 
looked  troubled. 

"Law  honey,"  she  said  smiling,  "sho'ly  they 
can  manage  for  theirselves  one  while.  I'm  plumb 
tired,  an'  I  know  good  an'  well  you  air.  Le's  sit 
here  a  spell  whar  it's  cool  an'  quiet,  an'  have  a 
little  visit." 

This  was  a  sort  of  invitation  which  Roxy  Griever 
could  not  refuse,  and  the  courting  couples  were 
spared  her  surveillance  for  a  little  longer. 

"Callista,"   Lance  began  abruptly,  when  they 
were  out  of  earshot  of  those  in  the  front  room, 
"  I  raised  the  roof -beams  of  my  cabin  to-day  - 
two  big  rooms  and  a  porch  between,  with  a  cook- 
ing place  for  summer.     Ain't  that  about  right?  " 

Callista  looked  toward  the  other  room  uneasily. 
She  had  no  audience  now  —  how  should  she  act, 
how  demean  herself  so  as  to  seem  indifferent? 
Lance's  undecipherable,  clear  hazel  eyes  were  on 


3  6  Lance  Cleaveragc 

her ;  they  rested  carelessly  in  what  seemed  a  pass- 
ing glance ;  yet  at  the  back  of  that  regard  looked 
out  a  demand  which  she  could  scarcely  compre- 
hend. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "Lance, 
won't  you  please  lift  that  there  coffee  off  o'  the 
fire?  It's  boiled  enough." 

Lance  bent  lithely  to  the  hearth  and  did  her 
bidding. 

"I've  got  me  two  horses  now,"  he  said  in  the 
same  even  undertone.  "  I  matched  Satan  with  a 
little  black  filly  that  Derf  brought  over  from  the 
Far  Cove  neighborhood.  They're  jest  of  a  size, 
and  they  step  together  like  a  couple  of  gals  with 
their  arms  around  each  other's  waists.  Derf  said 
the  filly  was  named  Cindy ;  but  I  call  her  Sin  — 
how  do  you  like  that?  —  Satan  and  Sin?" 

"Well,  I  think  it  sounds  right  wicked,  if  you 
ask  me,"  Callista  plucked  up  courage  to  say. 
"  But  I  don't  reckon  you  care  whether  I  like  it  or 
not." 

Lance  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Nope,"  he  agreed  easily.  Then  he  added, 
"Havin'  two  horses  helps  out  a  good  deal.  I've 
been  doing  haulin'  on  Derf's  contract.  I'll  have 
a  right  smart  of  money  left,  even  after  my  house 
is  all  done.  There'll  be  a-plenty  laid  up  by  next 
spring;  and  I'm  goin'  to  put  in  the  winter  clearing 
land.  I  reckon  we'll  be  good  ready  by  April." 

By  April!    A  sweet   perturbation  took  posses- 


The  Up-Sitting  37 

sion  of  Callista's  breast.  She  dared  not  raise  her 
eyes  lest  he  should  read  in  them  what  she  yet 
jealously  sought  to  conceal.  He  was  not  like  the 
other  boys;  with  all  the  raillery  and  badinage 
that  went  on  between  thenr — famous  in  their 
circle ;  with  all  the  unusual  parade,  in  the  open  play 
of  courtship,  he  had  never  really  approached  her 
as  a  lover,  never  laid  his  hand  on  her  in  tender- 
ness, nor  offered  her  a  caress,  save  as  a  public, 
saucy  threat.  Nor  had  he  asked  for  her,  as  the 
mountain  phrase  goes ;  but  surely  now  he  meant 
her  to  understand  that  he  expected  to  be  married 
in  the  spring.  If  only  he  would  ask  her  —  if  only ! 
She  had  always  meant  —  if  she  dared  —  to  re- 
fuse him  —  at  least  the  first  time ;  to  reluctantly 
give  in  under  repeated  importunities  —  but  that 
was  past.  With  her  heart  beating  in  her  throat, 
she  made  shift  to  say, 

"I  hope  you'll  be  better  to  your  horses  than 
most  of  the  men  that  hauls .  I  do  love  a  good  horse . ' ' 

"You  goin'  to  ride  with  me  to  the  buryin'  to- 
morrow ?  "  Lance  inquired  casually.  "  If  you  want 
to,  we  could  leave  the  buryin'  ground  after  the 
funeral's  over  and  go  up  Lance's  Laurel,  to  my 
place,  and  on  round  to  your  home  the  long  way. 
I  could  show  you  whether  I  was  good  to  my  horses 
or  not." 

The  color  glowed  softly  in  Callista's  cheeks 
and  her  veiled  eyes  were  bright.  But  before  she 
could  say  yes  or  no,  the  Widow  Griever  came  in. 


38  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Good  land,  Lance  Cleaverage! "  she  began  on 
her  usual  formula.  "  Why  hain't  you  bidden  out 
all  them  folks  in  thar?  This  here  coffee's  done, 
an'  a-gittin'  cold.  The  biscuits  ain't  no  better. 
They  got  to  eat  now,  'caze  I  want  'em  to  sing  a 
good  wake  of  hymns  —  I  promised  Granny  I'd 
tend  to  pickin'  'em  out." 

With  a  grimace  of  good-natured  acquiescence, 
Lance  went  to  execute  his  sister's  orders.  Out  on 
the  porch  a  half-dozen  young  boys  had  succumbed 
to  drowsiness,  one  by  one,  stretched  on  the  boards, 
taking  elbow  or  saddle  for  a  pillow.  The  crickets 
and  katydids  were  loud  in  the  grove.  Lance 
passed  through  the  front  rooms,  speaking  to  the 
couples  there,  and  called  in  those  outside.  The 
supper  of  good  warm  food,  and  hot,  strong  coffee 
was  eaten  gratefully.  Then  all  went  into  the 
front  room  and  the  hymns  were  sung.  Finally 
the  up-sitting  was  over,  and  Callista  had  made 
no  opportunity  for  further  speech  with  Lance. 
He  had  not  sought  one,  and  chance  had  not  offered 
it.  She  regretted  a  little  that  she  really  wanted 
so  much  to  ride  at  his  side  to-morrow.  If  she  did 
not,  she  would  quite  enjoy  treating  that  cavalier 
invitation  as  though  she  had  never  heard  it.  But 
the  very  thought  brought  a  quick  apprehension 
of  failure,  and  she  resolved  to  be  ready  and  waiting, 
so  that  she  might  seem  to  be  carelessly  picked  up 
at  the  last  moment,  lest  Lance  himself  anticipate 
her  in  this  game  of  indifference. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    BURYING. 

DAWN  was  gray  in  the  sky,  a  livid  light  begin- 
ning to  make  itself  felt  rather  than  seen 
above  the  mountains,  while  vast  gulfs  of  shadows 
lingered  in  their  folds,  when  Callista  climbed  the 
stairs  to  a  loft  room,  set  apart  for  the  Hands  girls, 
and,  partially  undressing,  lay  down  for  a  few 
hours  of  sleep.  Her  mother  and  Roxy  Griever 
had  gone  home  shortly  after  midnight.  Coming 
and  going  increased  with  the  rising  day.  Roxy 
Griever  had  now  returned,  bringing  with  her  a 
hastily  ruffled  cap  of  cheap  lace. 

"Sylvane,"  she  called,  coming  out  to  the  porch 
where  the  men  were  standing  about  conversing 
in  undertones,  "  you  got  to  ride  over  to  Miz.  Gen- 
try's and  git  a  black  veil  and  a  belt  for  Jane. 
Little  Liza  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  able  to  go  to  the 
buryin'  at  all,  and  Jane  has  obliged  to  have  a  veil 
and  belt,  her  bein'  a  mourner  that-a-way." 

Already,  along  the  fence  there  was  a  string  of 
dingy,  unkempt  teams  and  wagons;  while  in  the 
horse  lot  were  more,  those  who  had  come  earlier 
having  unhitched.  Granny  Yearwood  was  near 
ninety  —  Eliza  Hands  had  been  her  youngest 
—  and  she  was  known  to  the  whole  region  around. 

39 


40  Lance  Cleaverage 

Roxy  stood  in  the  door  shading  her  eyes,  picking 
out  this  one  and  that  among  those  in  attendance. 
The  gathering  looked  much  like  any  other,  except 
that  one  missed  the  shouts  of  hail  and  farewell, 
the  effusive  welcoming  and  hearty  speeding  of 
guests. 

The  stir  outside  waxed.  By  some  subjective 
movement,  Callista,  sleeping  in  the  loft  room,  was 
aware  of  it,  wakened,  rose,  dressed  and  made 
ready  herself. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we-all  ever  would  a'  done 
without  you,  honey,"  Little  Liza  told  her,  gazing 
across  from  the  bed  on  which  she  lay.  "Looks 
like  to  me  some  folks  is  born  comforters." 

The  pale  eyes  of  the  big  woman  took  in  Callista's 
sweet,  significant  beauty,  with  an  appreciation 
that  was  hardly  vicarious.  She  did  love  Callista 
for  her  brother's  sake ;  and  much,  too,  for  her  own. 

"You  come  up  and  tell  me  jest  how  Granny 
looked  before  you-all  go,  won't  you?"  she  urged. 
"I  want  to  see  you  before  you  start,  anyhow." 

Callista  promised  and  hurried  downstairs. 
Those  who  had  remained  over  night  were  standing 
about  a  table,  eating  a  hasty  breakfast.  By  eight 
o'clock  the  gathering  was  ready,  and  the  hitching 
up  began.  After  a  great  deal  of  consultation 
and  argument  as  to  where  each  one  should  ride, 
the  procession  began  to  arrange  itself.  There 
were  to  be  no  services  at  the  house,  but  it  was 
hoped  that  Preacher  Drumright  would  be  able  to 


The  Burying  41 

meet  the  funeral  party  at  the  burying  ground  and 
conduct  the  ceremonies  there  —  the  funeral  ser- 
mon would  be  at  the  church  on  some  later  Sunday. 

"Who  you  goin'  to  ride  with,  Callista?"  in- 
quired the  Widow  Griever,  a  weighty  frown  on 
her  brow.  "  We  got  to  git  this  thing  all  straighten- 
ened  out  so  the  familyan'  friends  won't  be  scrouged 
from  they'  places,  like  is  mighty  apt  to  happen 
at  a  funeral.  There  is  them  that's  bound  to  have 
a  ride,  whoever  gits  to  go." 

Roxy's  quilt  had  been  removed  from  the  coffin 
and  draped  over  a  near-by  stand.  Six  bronzed, 
heavy-breathing,  embarrassed  looking  men  were 
marshalled  in  by  the  widow,  and  instructed  how 
to  lift  the  black-painted  pine  box,  carry  it  to  the 
waiting  buckboard,  and  place  it  safely  there  with 
one  end  wedged  under  the  seat.  Then  Roxy 
turned  to  Flenton. 

"Go  git  Ellen  and  Jane,"  she  prompted. 

He  hastened  to  the  house  and  up  stairs,  and 
soon  returned  with  a  sister  on  each  arm,  black- 
draped  and  wailing,  clinging  to  him.  He  helped 
them  into  their  seats  in  his  own  vehicle.  But 
when  Ellen  made  room  for  him,  he  drew  back  and 
motioned  Kimbro  Cleaverage  forward. 

"Couldn't  you  drive,  Mr.  Cleaverage?  "  he  said 
in  an  undertone.  "Sylvane  can  take  yo'  team, 
with  Miz.  Griever  and  the  chillen;  and  I've  got  to 
go  in  —  "  he  reddened  with  embarrassment  — 
"in  another  place." 


42  Lance  Cleaverage 

The  crowd  was  pretty  much  all  in  the  yard  now, 
clambering  into  ox -carts  and  board-seated  wagons. 
Roxy  Griever,  with  Mary  Ann  Martha  and  Sylvane, 
were  waiting  in  Kimbro  Cleaverage's  small  wagon 
drawn  by  an  old  mule,  while  half-a-dozen  un- 
desired  additions  were  offered  to  their  party. 
Callista  looked  about  her  vainly  for  Lance.  She 
had  already  defended  herself  two  or  three  times 
from  being  thrust  into  some  vehicle  and  carried 
away  from  the  possibility  of  riding  with  him, 
when  she  finally  saw  him  approaching  down 
the  road.  He  was  on  one  black  horse  and 
leading  another.  She  could  not  know  that  he 
had  been  over  to  Derf's  that  morning  to  get 
the  filly. 

"Callista,"  said  Flenton  Hands's  voice  at  her 
shoulder,  "  Little  Liza  sent  me  down  to  see  would 
you  come  up  to  her  right  quick.  She's  mighty 
bad  off." 

With  one  last,  furtive  glance  toward  the  black 
horse  and  his  rider,  Callista  turned  and  hurried 
up  to  Liza. 

"  Air  they  gittin'  off,"  inquired  the  ailing  woman, 
eagerly  lifting  her  head  with  its  camphor-drenched 
cloths.  "Did  Ellen  and  Jane  cry  much?  Looks 
to  me  like  they  wasn't  much  takin'  on  —  I  never 
beared  much.  There  wasn't  nigh  the  fuss  that 
they  was  at  old  Enoch  Dease's  buryin'.  I  wish't 
to  the  land  I  could  have  been  down  there  —  the 
Lord  knows  I'd  'a'  cried.  Granny  ought  to  be 


The  Burying  43 

wept  for.     Think  o'  livin'  to  be  ninety  years  old  - 
and  then  havin'  to  die  at  last!     Oh,  ain't  it  awful, 
Callista  ?     How  did  she  look,  honey  ?     Was  Vander 
Blackshears  here?     Set  right  down  there  on  my 
bed  and  tell  me." 

One  might  almost  have  guessed  that  the  length- 
ened inquiries  were  dictated  by  someone  who 
wanted  Callista  detained.  The  girlt  answered 
them  hastily,  with  her  heart  galloping,  her  ears 
alert  for  sounds  from  below. 

"Don't  you  be  uneasy,"  Little  Liza  soothed 
her.  "Flenton  said  he'd  wait  and  take  you  in 
his  new  buggy  that  he  bought  when  he  got  the 
coffin  a-yesterday.  "You'll  be  the  first  one  to  ride 
in  it  —  ain't  that  fine  ?  Flent's  jest  that-a-way. 
He  don't  grudge  anything  to  them  he  loves.  You 
hadn't  promised  somebody  else  to  ride  with  'em, 
had  ye,  Callisty?" 

She  brought  the  point-blank  question  out  after 
a  little  halt,  reddening  a  bit  at  the  boldness  of 
it.  Plainly  this  was  at  another's  dictation.  Cal- 
lista shook  her  head.  Words  were  beyond  her 
at  the  moment;  for,  looking  down  from  the  tiny 
window  of  the  loft  room,  she  saw  the  procession 
getting  underway,  one  clumsy  vehicle  after  another 
falling  into  line  behind  the  buckboard  that  was 
now  slowly  disappearing  beyond  the  bend  of  the 
road.  And  at  the  fence,  Lance  Cleaverage  was 
helping  awkward  little  Ola  Derf  to  mount  the 
black  filly! 


44  Lance  Cleaverage 

"I  said  Granny  deserved  to  be  wept  for,"  Lit- 
tle Liza  intoned,  as  she  saw  the  tears  that  slipped 
down  Callista's  pink  cheeks.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
cared  so  much  about  her,  honey,  but  I  know  you've 
got  a  mighty  tender  heart." 

"Is  that  all,  now,  Liza?  Are  you  all  right  till 
the  folks  get  back?  "  questioned  Callista.  "Well, 
then  I'll  leave  you  —  they're  a-going,"  and  with 
an  effort  for  composure,  she  turned  and  made  her 
way  down  to  Flenton  Hands  and  the  new  buggy. 
Her  mother  was  staying  to  get  dinner  for  every- 
body —  a  piece  of  genuine  self -sacrifice,  this  - 
and  as  Callista  passed  her  in  the  kitchen,  she  made 
a  half-hearted  offer  to  change  places. 

"No,  honey,"  said  Octavia,  resolutely.  "You 
go  right  along.  I  don't  mind  this.  I"  -she 
lowered  her  tone  to  a  whisper  of  furtive  pleasure 
-  "  I  seen  Lance  bringing  up  the  prettiest  little 
black  mare  for  you  to  ride."  With  unwonted 
demonstrativeness  she  bent  forward  and  kissed 
the  young,  smooth,  oval  cheek.  "We  ain't 
got  each  other  for  always,"  she  said  gently.  "  Let's 
be  kind  and  lovin'  while  we  have.  Go  'long, 
honey,  an'  ride  with  Lance.  Granny  Yearwood 
wouldn't  begrudge  it  to  ye." 

Flenton  met  the  girl  at  the  door,  and  walked 
with  her  down  to  the  gate.  It  was  an  almost 
shocking  breach  of  etiquette  for  him  to  let  the 
entire  procession  get  away  without  him,  yet 
neither  mentioned  it.  Callista's  eyes  were  on  two 


The  Burying  45 

mounted  figures  that  closed  the  train,  and  she 
scarcely  spoke  as  she  seated  herself  in  the  new 
vehicle. 

The  graveyard  was  a  stony,  briery  patch  of 
ground,  as  desolate  a  spot  as  could  well  be  found. 
In  a  country  where  the  houses  were  so  scattered 
that  the  word  "neighborhood"  had  scarcely  any 
meaning,  there  was  no  public  sentiment  concern- 
ing the  care  of  the  abandoned  God's  acre;  but 
each,  when  a  grave  was  dug  in  it  for  one  of  his 
clan,  resolved  on  making  some  effort  toward  its 
improvement,  and,  in  the  struggle  for  existence, 
promptly  forgot.  It  was  guarded  partly  by  a 
rail  fence  that  Derf's  Old  Piedy,  a  notorious 
rogue,  could  lay  down  with  practised  horns  any 
time  she  liked  ;  and  partly  by  a  crooked,  crumbling 
wall  of  stones,  picked  up  off  the  land  itself  and 
laid  there  by  hands  which  had  long  been  dust. 
A  wide  place  it  was,  for  its  scanty  tenantry,  with 
hollows  hidden  in  liana-woven  thickets  and  strag- 
gling knolls  yellowed  with  sedge-grass.  As  is 
usual  where  a  hard -wood  forest  has  been  cleared, 
young  pines  were  springing  up  all  over  the  waste ; 
one  could  see,  between  their  dark  points,  the  blue 
rim  of  the  world ;  for  this  land  lay  high,  on  a  sort 
of  divide  or  shed,  where  nothing  would  grow. 

The  unmended  road  was  full  of  vehicles,  the 
graveyard  filling  with  people,  as  Callista  and 
Flenton  came  up.  The  ride  had  been  one  of  dis- 


46  Lance  Cleaverage 

comfort  to  the  girl.  She  liked  to  have  her  con- 
quests to  display  before  others;  but  she  always 
shrank  from  being  alone  with  Flenton  Hands, 
and  to-day  his  insistent  love-making  had  filled 
her  with  cold  distaste. 

"And  you  are  certainly  the  sweetest  comforter 
ever  a  man  had  in  time  of  affliction,"  he  told  her 
over  and  over  again,  with  sanctimonious  inflec- 
tions. "  If  I  had  you  always  by  my  side,  looks 
like  to  me  the  world's  sorrows  wouldn't  have  no 
power  on  me." 

It  was  a  relief  to  her  when  they  reached  the 
fence,  and  he  stepped  out  to  help  her  down  and 
tie  his  horse.  There  had  been  some  uncertainty 
up  to  the  last  as  to  whether  Preacher  Drumright 
could  be  got  for  the  occasion,  but  the  sound  of 
his  voice  from  the  press  of  calico-clad  and  jeans- 
covered  shoulders  and  backs,  reassured  Flenton. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  Drumright's  thar,"  he  said 
to  Callista,  as  he  lifted  her  down.  "He'll  preach 
Granny's  funeral  come  Sunday,  he  said ;  but 
thar  ain't  anyone  can  pray  like  he  can.  I  do  love 
a  good  servigorous  prayer." 

Callista's  anxious  eyes  were  searching  the  ani- 
mals tethered  about  for  sight  of  the  two  black 
horses  that  stepped  together  "  like  a  couple  of  gals 
with  their  arms  around  each  other's  waists."  At 
last  she  found  them  in  the  grove,  and  hastily 
turned  with  her  escort  to  go  through  the  gap  in 
the  fence  to  where  the  preacher  was,  where  yawned 


The  Burying  47 

the  open  grave,  and  stood  the  coffin.  A  tangle 
of  dewberry  vines,  with  withering  fruit  on  them 
here  and  there,  and  beginning  even  in  their  mid- 
summer greenness  to  show  russet  and  reddened 
leaves,  scrambled  all  over  the  poor  soil.  Most 
of  the  graves  were  unmarked,  some  had  a  slab 
or  block  of  wood ;  only  here  and  there  gleamed  a 
small  stone. 

Callista  passed  that  of  her  father,  good-looking, 
ne'er-do-well  Race  Gentry,  whom  the  romantic 
young  Octavia  Luster  had  run  away  to  marry. 
A  honeysuckle  vine  covered  it  with  a  tangle  of 
green,  offering  now  its  bunches  of  fawn  and  white, 
heavy-scented  blossoms  from  a  closely  compacted 
mound. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  have  a  real  monument  put  up 
for  Granny,"  Flenton  whispered  to  her  as  they 
went  forward  together.  "I  wish't  she'd  lived  to 
be  a  hundred,  so  I  could  have  put  that  on  the 
stone ;  but  we're  mighty  proud  of  her  holdin'  out 
to  ninety." 

Quite  against  her  will,  Callista  found  herself 
taken  up  to  the  front  of  the  gathering,  placed  be- 
tween Ellen  and  Flenton  Hands  beside  the  coffin. 
Preacher  Drumright  was  speaking  with  closed 
eyes ;  he  had  embarked  on  one  of  those  servigorous 
prayers  which  Hands  admired.  The  two  girls, 
Ellen  and  Jane,  were  sobbing  in  long,  dry  gasps. 
After  the  prayer  came  a  hymn,  the  lulls  in  the 
service  being  filled  in  by  the  sobs  of  the  Hands 


48  Lance  Cleaverage 

girls,  little  responsive  moans  from  some  woman  in 
the  assembly,  and  the  purr  of  the  wind  in  the 
young  pines,  where  scared  rabbits  were  hiding; 
and  by  the  far,  melodious  jangle  of  Old  Piedy's 
bell  —  Old  Piedy,  dispossessed  and  driven  away. 

With  the  appearance  of  Callista  and  her  escort 
on  the  scene,  a  young  fellow  who  had  been  lying 
full  length  on  the  top  of  the  ruining  stone  wall 
tilted  his  hat  quite  over  his  eyes  and  relaxed  a 
certain  watchfulness  of  demeanor  which  had  till 
then  been  apparent  in  him.  When  the  girl  was 
finally  ensconced  in  the  middle  of  the  lamenting 
Hands  family,  this  person  leaned  down  and  whis- 
pered to  Ola  Derf,  whose  square  little  back  was 
resting  against  the  wall  close  beside  him, 

"Come  on,  let's  go.  Haven't  you  had  about 
enough  of  this?" 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Ola  in  a  whisper,  "but  we 
mustn't  git  our  horses  till  the  preacher  quits 
prayin'.  Hit'll  make  too  much  noise." 

Again  Lance  relaxed  into  his  quiescent  attitude, 
and  had  to  be  roused  when  the  hymn  began,  with, 

"He's  done  finished,  Lance.  Do  you  want  to 
go  now?" 

The  wind  soothed  its  world-old,  sighing  monody 
in  the  young  pines  overhead ;  beneath  the  wax- 
ing warmth  of  the  morning  sun  faint  whiffs,  res- 
inous, pungent,  came  down  from  their  boughs, 
to  mingle  with  the  perfume  from  the  vagrant 
honeysuckle  that  flung  a  long  green  arm  toward 


The  Burying  49 

the  trunk  of  one  of  them.  Suddenly  a  woman's 
tenor,  wild  and  sweet,  rose  like  a  winged  thing 
and  led  all  the  other  voices. 

"  Huh-uh,"  grunted  Lance,  from  his  sun-warmed 
couch.  "  Let's  wait  awhile  now." 

After  the  hymn,  Drumright  read  from  the 
Scripture.  Even  his  rasping  voice  could  not 
disguise  the  immemorial  beauty  of  the  sombre 
Hebrew  imagery,  "Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be 
loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken." 

Lance  drew  a  long  quivering  breath.  Some- 
thing in  the  sounds,  the  hour  and  the  occasion, 
had  appealed  to  that  real  Lance  Cleaverage,  of 
which  the  man  Ola  Derf  knew  was  only  custodian, 
to  whose  imperious  needs  the  obvious  Lance  must 
always  bend. 

Yet,  long  before  poor  Callista  could  be  released 
and  allowed  to  ride  home,  by  her  own  earnest 
petition,  in  the  buckboard  with  Jane  and  Ellen, 
the  two  by  the  stone  wall  had  found  their  way 
across  to  the  black  horses  in  the  grove,  and  were 
scurrying  down  the  dusty  summer  road,  racing 
as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  grave- 
yard. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A    DANCE    AND    A    SERENADE. 

THE  Derfs  occupied  a  peculiar  position  among 
their  Turkey  Track  neighbors.  They  had  a 
considerable  tincture  of  Cherokee  Indian  blood,  no 
discredit  in  the  Tennessee  mountains,  or  elsewhere 
for  that  matter.  One  branch  of  the  family  had 
received  money  compensation  for  their  holdings 
from  the  Government.  Leola's  father  had  at 
that  time  taken  possession  of  an  allotment  of 
land  in  the  Indian  Territory.  The  eldest  daughter, 
Iley,  married  out  there,  and  brought  back  her 
Indian  husband  when  Granny  Derf ,  pining  for  her 
native  mountains,  had  to  be  carried  home  to  Big 
Turkey  Track. 

It  was  not  the  blood  of  another  race  that  set  the 
Derfs  apart;  but  it  may  have  been  traits  which 
came  with  the  wild  strain.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  money  going  among  the  clan.  Old  man 
Derf  was  a  general  trader;  also  he  engaged  in 
tanbark  hauling  in  the  season,  and  some  other 
contracting  enterprises  such  as  required  the  use 
of  ready  cash.  In  the  back  room  of  the  main 
house  there  was  quite  a  miscellaneous  stock  of 
provisions,  goods,  and  oddments  for  sale.  Derf 
was  more  than  suspected  of  being  a  moonshiner  or 

5° 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  51 

of  dealing  with  moonshiners.  He  gave  dances  or 
frolics  of  some  sort  at  his  house  very  frequently, 
and  there  was  always  plenty  of  whisky.  At  one 
time  or  another  the  family  had  lived  in  the  Settle- 
ment a  good  deal,  and  come  off  rather  smudged 
from  their  residence  in  that  place.  Indeed,  your 
true  mountaineer  believes  that  sin  is  of  the  valley, 
and  looks  for  no  good  thing  to  come  out  of  the 
low  ground.  In  a  simple  society,  like  that  of  the 
mountains,  the  line  is  drawn  with  such  savage 
sharpness  that  the  censors  hesitate  to  draw  it 
at  all.  Yet  a  palpable  cloud  hung  over  the  Derfs. 
While  not  completely  outcast,  they  were  of  so 
little  standing  that  their  house  was  scarcely  a 
respectable  place  for  a  young,  unmarried  woman  to 
be  seen  frequently.  Ola,  Garrett  Derf's  second 
daughter,  a  girl  of  twenty,  and  a  homely,  high- 
couraged,  hard  muscled  little  creature,  was  per- 
mitted in  the  neighborhood  circle  of  young  girls 
rather  on  sufferance ;  but  she  did  not  trouble  them 
greatly  with  her  presence,  preferring  as  a  rule  her 
own  enterprises. 

Lance  Cleaverage,  a  free,  unfettered  spirit, 
trammeled  by  no  social  prejudices,  came  often  to 
the  frolics  at  Derf's.  He  seldom  danced  himself, 
whisky  he  never  touched ;  but  he  loved  to  play  for 
the  others,  and  he  got  all  the  stimulation  which 
his  temperament  and  his  mood  asked  out  of  the 
crowd,  the  lights,  the  music,  and  some  indefinable 
element  into  which  these  fused  for  him. 


52  Lance  Cleaverage 

It  was  nearly  two  months  after  the  incident  at 
the  church  and  the  funeral  of  Granny  Yearwood, 
that  Ola  was  redding  up  and  putting  to  rights  for 
a  dance.  She  had  hurried  through  an  early 
supper;  the  house  was  cleared,  like  the  deck  of  a 
ship  for  action,  of  all  furniture  that  could  not  be 
sat  upon.  What  remained  —  a  few  chairs  and 
boxes,  and  the  long  benches  on  which,  between 
table  and  wall,  the  small  fry  of  the  family  crowded 
at  meal  time  —  were  arranged  along  the  sides  of 
the  room  out  of  the  way.  The  girl  herself  was 
wearing  a  deep  pink  calico  dress  and  a  string  of 
imitation  coral  beads.  Generally,  she  gave  little 
thought  to  her  appearance ;  but  everybody  believed 
now  that  the  time  was  set  for  the  marriage  of 
Lance  Cleaverage  and  Callista  Gentry;  neither  of 
the  young  people  denied  it,  Callista  only  laughing 
scornfully,  and  Lance  lightly  admitting  that  there 
was  a  mighty  poor  chance  for  a  fellow  to  get  away 
when  a  girl  like  Callista  made  up  her  mind  to  wed 
him.  In  the  face  of  these  things,  the  little  brown 
girl  clad  her  carefully,  laboring  with  the  con- 
scienceless assiduity  of  Nature's  self  to  do  her 
utmost  to  get  her  chosen  man  away  from  the 
other  woman  —  to  get  him  for  herself.  She  went 
out  past  the  wood -pile  to  view  the  evening  sky 
anxiously,  and  seeing  only  a  few  cloud-roses 
blooming  in  the  late  light  over  the  hills,  came 
back  with  satisfaction  to  attempt  once  more 
putting  her  small  brothers  and  sisters  out  of  the  way. 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  53 

A  little  after  dark  her  guests  began  to  arrive, 
coming  in  by  ones  and  twos  and  threes,  some  of 
the  boys  in  mud-splashed  working  clothes,  some 
in  more  holiday  attire.  About  moonrise  Lance 
strolled  down  the  road,  and  by  way  of  defending 
himself  from  the  importunities  of  Ola's  conversa- 
tion, if  one  might  guess,  kept  his  banjo  twanging 
persistently.  There  was  a  certain  solemnity  over 
the  early  comers,  although  Derf  roared  a  hearty 
greeting  from  his  door  of  the  cabin,  and  occasion- 
ally some  of  the  men  adjourned  to  his  special 
room  and  came  out  wiping  their  mouths. 

"Ain't  nobody  never  goin'  to  dance?"  inquired 
Ola  impatiently.  "Here's  Lance  a-playin'  and 
a-playin',  and  nobody  makin'  any  manner  of  use 
of  the  music." 

There  was  nearly  ten  minutes  of  hitching  and 
halting,  proposals  and  counter  propositions,  before 
a  quadrille  was  started.  It  was  gone  through 
rather  perfunctorily,  then  they  all  sat  down  on  the 
boxes  and  benches  and  stared  into  the  empty 
middle  of  the  room. 

"Good  land!"  cried  Ola,  coming  from  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  "play  'Greenbacks',  Lance - 
let's  dance  'Stealing  partners'." 

The   new  amusement  —  half  dance,   half  play 

-  proved,  as  she  had  guessed,  a  leaven  to  the 

heaviness  of  the  occasion.     People  began  to  laugh 

a    little,    and    speak    above    their   breath.     Two 

awkward   boys,   trying  to   "shoot    dominickers " 


54  Lance  Cleaverage 

at  the  same  moment,  collided  under  the  arch  and 
went  sprawling  to  the  floor.  The  mishap  was 
greeted  with  a  roar  of  mirth  in  which  all  chill  and 
diffidence  were  drowned. 

And  now  the  arrivals  from  the  far  cabins  were 
on  hand.  Small  children  who  had  been  allowed 
to  sit  up  and  look  on  nodded  in  corners,  or 
stretched  themselves  across  their  fathers'  knees 
and  were  tumbled  just  as  they  were  upon  a  pallet 
in  the  loft.  The  usual  contingent  of  bad  little 
boys  collected  outside  the  door  and  began  to  shout 
at  the  dancers  by  name,  calling  out  comments 
on  personal  peculiarities,  or  throwing  small  chips 
and  stones  under  foot  to  trip  up  the  unwary. 
These  were  finally  put  down  by  the  strong 
hand. 

Clapping  and  stamping  increased  as  the  dancers 
moved  more  rapidly ;  calls  were  shouted ;  the 
laughter  was  continuous.  Lance  Cleaverage 
leaned  forward  in  his  place,  striking  the  humming 
strings  with  sure,  tense  fingers,  his  eyes  aglow, 
and  on  his  mouth  a  half  smile.  The  fun  waxed 
furious;  the  figures  whirled  faster  and  faster, 
gathering,  disparting,  interweaving,  swinging  and 
eddying  before  his  eyes.  Coats  were  thrown  off, 
the  feet  thudded  out  the  measure  heavily.  This 
was  his  dissipation,  the  draught  that  the  mirth  of 
others  brewed  for  him.  Its  fumes  were  beginning 
to  mount  to  his  brain,  when  Ola's  hard  brown  little 
hand  came  down  across  his  strings  and  stopped 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  55 

the  music.     There  was  an  instant  and  indignant 
outcry  and  protest. 

"  Consarn  yo'  time,  Ola!  What  did  you  want 
to  do  that  for?"  demanded  a  tall  young  fellow 
who  had  broken  down  in  the  midst  of  a  pigeon 
wing,  as  though  he  drew  his  inspiration  from  the 
banjo  and  could  not  move  without  its  sound. 

"  I  want  to  hear  Buck  play  on  his  accordion  - 
and  I  want  Lance  to  dance  with  me,"  Ola  said 
petulantly.     "What's  the  use  of  him  settin'  here 
all  the  time  playin'  for  you-all  to  have  fun,  and 
him  never  gettin'  any?     Come  on,  Lance." 

Ola  Derf  was  not  used  to  the  consideration 
generally  accorded  young  women.  When  she 
made  a  request,  she  deemed  it  well  to  see  that 
her  requirements  were  complied  with.  Deftly 
she  lifted  the  banjo  from  Lance's  lap  and  passed 
it  to  someone  behind  her,  who  put  it  on  the  fire- 
board.  Then  laying  hold  of  the  young  man  him- 
self, she  pulled  him  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"Play,  Buck,  play,"  she  admonished  Fuson, 
who  had  his  accordion.  "You  made  yo'  brags 
about  what  fine  music  you  could  get  out  of  that 
thar  box,  —  now  give  us  a  sample." 

Buck  played.  When  a  dance  has  swung  so  far 
as  this  one  had,  nothing  can  check  its  rhythmic 
movement.  The  notes  dragged  wheezily  from  the 
old  accordion  answered  as  well  to  the  gathering's 
warm,  free,  fluent  mood  as  the  truer  harmonies  of 


Lance's  banjo.  Hand  clasping  hand,  Ola  and 
Lance  whirled  among  the  others,  essaying  a  sim- 
ple sort  of  polka.  She  was  a  tireless  dancer,  and 
he  as  light  footed  as  a  panther.  The  two  of  them 
began  to  feel  that  intoxication  of  swift  movement 
timed  to  music  which  nothing  else  in  life  can 
quite  furnish,  intensified  in  the  girl  by  a  gripping 
conviction  that  this  was  her  hour,  and  she  must 
make  the  most  of  it.  She  was  aflame  with  it. 
When  Buck  broke  down  she  instantly  proposed  a 
game  of  Thimble.  Boldly,  almost  openly,  she 
let  herself  forfeit  a  kiss  to  Lance. 

There  was  a  babble  of  tongues  and  laughter,  a 
hubbub  of  mirth,  a  crossfiring  and  confusion  of 
sound  and  movement  which  wrought  upon  the 
nerves  like  broken  chords,  subtle  dissonances,  in 
music.  Buck  was  trying  to  play  again,  some  of 
the  boys  were  patting  and  stamping,  others  re- 
monstrating, jeering,  making  ironic  suggestions, 
when  Lance,  a  bit  flushed  and  bright  of  eye, 
dropped  his  arm  around  the  brown  girl's  waist 
to  take  his  forfeit.  As  in  duty  bound  she  pulled 
away  from  him.  He  sprang  after,  caught  her 
by  the  shoulders,  turned  her  broad  little  face 
up  to  his  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  laughing,  red 
mouth. 

Then  a  miracle!  Kissing  Ola  Derf  was  not 
a  serious  matter;  indeed  common  gossip  hinted 
that  it  was  a  thing  all  too  easily  accomplished. 
But  tonight  the  girl  was  wrought  beyond  herself 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  57 

—  a  magnet.  And  Lance's  sleeping  spirit  felt 
the  shock  of  that  kiss.  But  alas  for  Ola,  it  was 
for  her  rival's  behoof  the  miracle  was  worked ;  it 
was  in  her  rival's  cause  she  had  labored,  enlisting 
all  her  primitive  arts,  all  her  ingenuity  and  resolu- 
tion! The  lights,  the  music,  the  movement,  the 
gayety  of  others,  these  had,  so  far,  pleased  and 
stimulated  Lance  as  they  always  did.  But  the 
unaccustomed  warmth  and  contact  of  the  dance; 
the  daring  and  abandon  of  the  kissing  game  after- 
ward ;  finally  the  sudden  ravisher's  clasp  and 
snatched  kiss  —  these  set  free  in  him  an  impulse 
which  had  slumbered  till  now.  To  this  bold, 
aggressive,  wilful  nature  it  was  always  the  high 
mountain,  the  long  dubious  road,  the  deep  waters 
-  never  the  easy  way,  the  thing  at  hand ;  it 
was  ever  his  own  trail  —  not  the  path  suggested 
to  his  feet.  And  so,  in  this  sudden  awakening, 
he  took  no  account  of  Ola  Derf,  and  his  whole 
soul  turned  toward  Callista  —  Callista  the  scorn- 
ful, whose  profile,  or  the  side  of  whose  cheek,  he 
was  always  seeing ;  Callista  who  refused  to  lift  her 
lashes  to  look  at  him,  and  who  was  ever  saying 
coolly  exasperating  things  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
weariness.  If  Callista  would  look  at  him  as  Ola 
Derf  had  done  —  if  he  might  catch  her  thus  in 
his  arms  —  if  those  lips  of  hers  were  offered  to 
his  kiss  —  ! 

Without  a  word  of  excuse  or  explanation  he 
dropped  the  girl's  hand  as  he  stood  in  the  ring  of 


58  Lance  Cleaverage 

players,  caught  his  banjo  down  from  the  shelf, 
and  leaving  open  mouths  and  staring  eyes  behind 
him,  strode  through  the  door.  A  moment  later 
he  was  footing  it  out  in  the  moonlight  road,  walk- 
ing straight  and  fast  toward  the  church  where 
protracted  meeting  was  going  on,  and  where  he 
guessed  Callista  would  be  with  her  family.  A 
javelin,  flame -tipped,  had  touched  him.  Some- 
thing new  and  fiery  danced  in  his  veins.  He 
would  see  her  home.  They  would  walk  together, 
far  behind  the  family  group,  in  this  wonderful 
white  moonlight. 

When  he  reached  Brush  Arbor  church  he  avoided 
the  young  fellows  lounging  about  the  entrance 
waiting  to  beau  the  girls.  He  moved .  lightly 
to  a  window  at  the  back  of  the  building  and  looked 
in.  There  sat  Octavia  Gentry  on  the  women's 
side,  and  old  Ajax,  her  father-in-law,  on  the  men's. 
Callista  he  could  not  find  from  his  coign  of  van- 
tage. An  itinerant  exhorter  was  on  his  feet, 
preaching  loud,  pounding  the  pulpit,  addressing 
himself  now  and  again  to  the  mourners  who  knelt 
about  the  front  bench.  Lance  cautiously  put 
his  head  in  and  looked  further.  Somehow  he 
knew,  all  in  a  moment,  that  this  was  what  he  had 
expected  —  what  he  had  hoped  for ;  Callista  was 
at  home  waiting  for  him.  Yet  none  the  less  he 
carefully  examined  the  middle  seats  where  might 
be  found  the  courting  couples.  He  would  not 
put  it  beyond  his  Callista  to  go  to  church  with  some 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  59 

other  swain  and  sit  there  publicly  advertising 
her  favor  to  the  interloper. 

When  he  was  at  last  satisfied  that  she  was  not 
in  the  building,  he  turned  as  he  had  turned  from 
Ola  Derf,  and  made  a  straight  path  for  himself 
from  Brush  Arbor  to  the  Gentry  place.  Scorning 
the  beaten  highway  of  other  men's  feet,  he  struck 
directly  into  the  forest,  and  through  a  little  grove 
of  second -growth  chestnut,  with  its  bunches  of 
silver-gray  stems  rising  slim  and  white  in  the  light 
of  the  moon.  Moonshine  sifting  through  the 
leaves  changed  his  work-a-day  clothing  to  the  garb 
of  a  troubadour.  The  banjo  hung  within  easy 
reach  of  his  fingers;  he  took  off  his  old  hat  and 
tucked  it  under  his  arm,  striking  now  and  again  as 
he  went  a  twanging  chord. 

It  was  an  old  story  to  him,  this  walking  the 
moonlit  wild  with  his  banjo  for  company.  Many 
a  time  in  the  year's  release,  the  cool,  fragrant, 
summer-deep  forest  had  called  him  by  its  delicate 
silver  nocturnes,  its  caverns  of  shadow  and  milky 
pools  of  light,  bidden  him  to  a  wild  spring-running. 
On  such  nights  his  heart  could  not  sleep  for  song. 
Sometimes,  intoxicated  with  the  rhythm,  he  had 
swung  on  and  on,  crashing  through  the  dew- 
drenched  huckleberry  tangles,  rocking  a  little, 
with  eyes  half  closed,  and  interspersing  the  bar- 
baric jangle  of  his  banjo  with  quaint  jodeling  and 
long,  falsetto-broken  whoops,  the  heritage  that 
the  Cherokee  left  behind  him  in  this  land.  But 


60  Lance  Cleaverage 

now  it  was  no  mere  physical  elation  of  youth  and 
summer  and  moonlight.  It  was  the  supreme 
urge  of  his  nature  that  sent  his  feet  forward  stead- 
ily, swiftly,  as  toward  a  purpose  that  might  not 
be  let  or  stayed.  Speed  —  to  Callista  —  that 
was  all.  He  fell  into  silence,  even  the  banjo's 
thrumming  hushed  to  an  intense  quivering  call 
of  broken  chords,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  insect  cries  of  love  that  filled  the  summer  wood 
about  him. 

All  the  fathomless  gulf  of  the  sky  was  poured 
full  of  the  blue-green  splendors  that  flooded  the 
night  world  of  the  mountains.  Drops  of  dew 
spilled  from  leaf  to  leaf ;  down  in  the  spring  hollow 
he  was  spattered  to  the  knees  by  the  thousand 
soft,  reaching  fronds  of  cinnamon  fern.  Wild 
fragrances  splashed  him  with  great  waves  of  sweet- 
ness. So  the  lords  of  the  wild,  under  pelt  and 
antler,  have  ever  been  wont  to  rove  to  their  wooing ; 
so  restless  are  the  wings  that  flutter  among  summer 
branches  and  under  summer  moons. 

Between  the  banjo's  murmuring  chords,  as  he 
neared  the  Gentry  clearing,  once  more  a  melody 
began  to  stray,  like  smoke  which  smoulders  fit- 
fully and  must  presently  burst  into  flame.  - 
Thrum-dum,  thrum-dum,  and  then  the  tune's 
low  call.  It  was  a  gypsy  music,  that  lured  with 
vistas  of  unknown  road,  the  glint  of  water,  and 
the  sparkle  of  the  hunter's  fire;  a  wildly  sweet 
note  that  asked,  "How  many  miles?"  —and 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  61 

again,  out  of  colorless  drumming,  "How  many 
years?  .  .  .  how  many  miles?".  .  .  a  song  shadow- 
like  in  its  come-and-go,  rising  at  intervals  to 
the  cry  of  a  passion  no  mortality  has  power  to 
tame,  and  then,  ere  the  ear  had  fairly  caught  its 
message,  falling  again  into  dim  harmonies  as  of 
rain  blown  through  the  dark ;  —  a  question,  and 
the  wordless,  haunting  refrain  for  all  answer, 
Just  above  his  breath  Lance  voiced  the  words: 

"  How  many  years,  how  many  miles, 
Far  from  the  door  where  my  darling  smiles? 
How  many  miles,  how  many  years, 
Divide  our  hearts  by  pain  and  fears  ?  " 

The  melody  sank  and  trailed,  drowned  in  a 
cadence  of  minors  that  sobbed  like  the  rush  of 
storm.  Out  of  this,  wild  as  the  wind's  pleading, 
it  rose  again; 

"It  may  be  far,  it  may  be  near, 
The  water's  wide  and  the  forest  drear, 
But  somewhere  awaiting,  surely  I 
Shall  find  my  true  love  by  and  bye." 

The  lithe  limbs  threshed  through  the  dew- 
drenched,  scented  undergrowth.  The  trees  grew 
more  openly  now;  clearing  was  at  hand. 

"  —  My  true  love  —  by  and  bye," 

hummed  the  light,  sweet  baritone. 

Callista  had  petulantly  refused  to  go  to  church 
with  her  mother  and  grandfather.  For  no  reason 
which  she  could  assign,  she  wanted  to  be  alone. 


62  Lance  Cleaverage 

A 

Then  when  they  were  all  gone,  she  wished  she  had 
accompanied  them.  An  indefinable  disquiet 
possessed  her.  She  could  not  stay  in  the  house. 
Candle  in  hand  she  sought  an  outside  cabin  where 
stood  the  loom.  Climbing  to  the  loft  room  of  this 
she  set  her  light  down  and  began  to  search  out  some 
quilt  pieces,  which  she  figured  to  herself  as  the 
object  of  her  present  excursion.  Though  she 
would  have  denied  it  with  scorn,  the  idea  of  Lance 
Cleaverage  filled  her  completely;  Lance,  the  man 
who  was  preparing  to  marry  her,  yet  upon  whom 
-  of  all  those  who  had  come  near  her,  in  the  free, 
fortuitous  commerce  of  marriageable  youth  in 
the  mountains  —  she  had,  it  seemed  to  her,  been 
able  to  lay  no  charm,  to  exert  no  influence.  He 
met  her;  he  exchanged  cut  and  thrust  with  her, 
and  he  went  his  ways  after  their  encounters, 
neither  more  nor  less  than  he  had  been  before. 
He  came  back  seemingly  at  the  dictates  of  time 
and  chance  only,  and  never  hotter  nor  colder, 
never  hastening  to  nor  avoiding  her.  A  bitter- 
ness tinged  all  her  thought  .  .  .  She  wondered 
if  she  would  have  seen  him  had  she  gone  to  meeting 
.  .  .  She  reflected  jealously  that  he  was  much 
more  likely  to  be  at  the  frolic  at  Derf's.  .  .  .  She 
wished  she  knew  how  to  dance. 

All  at  once,  on  the  vague  introspection  of  her 
mood,  she  became  aware  of  the  recurrent  stroke  of 
a  soft  musical  note  —  the  humming  of  Lance's 
banjo.  Crouching  rigidly  by  the  little  chest  that 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  63 

held  her  quilt  scraps,  she  listened.  It  was  a  trick 
of  the  imagination  —  she  had  thought  so  much 
about  him  that  she  fancied  him  near.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  heavy  beating  of  the  heart,  she  realized 
that  if  he  had  been  at  the  dance  and  gone  home 
early  he  might  be  passing  now  on  the  big  road. 
She  smiled  at  her  own  folly;  this  tremulous 
low  call  could  never  be  heard  across  two  fields 
and  the  door-yard. 

And  it  was  a  banjo  ...  it  was  Lance's  banjo 
...  he  was  playing  whisperingly,  too,  as  he  loved 
to  do. 

Then  the  strings  ceased  to  whisper.  Clearer 
came  their  voice  and  louder.  Without  thinking 
to  extinguish  her  candle,  she  ran  to  the  window  and 
knelt  hearkening.  She  looked  down  on  the 
moonlit  yard.  All  was  silent  and  homely  .  .  . 
but  that  was  Lance's  banjo.  Even  as  she  came 
to  this  decision,  Lance  himself  broke  through  the 
greenery  at  the  edge  of  •  the  near  field,  vaulted  a 
low  fence,  and  emerged  into  the  open.  He  came 
on  in  the  soft  light,  singing  a  little,  apparently  to 
himself. 

Spellbound  she  listened,  gripping  the  window 
ledge  hard,  holding  her  breath,  choking,  wondering 
what  this  new  thing  was  that  had  come  to  her. 
Above  him  she  was  set  like  a  saint  enshrined, 
with  the  moonlight  to  silver  her  rapt,  shining 
face,  and  the  glow  of  the  candle  behind  making  a 
nimbus  of  her  fair  hair.  Yet  never  at  all  (or  she 


64  Lance  Cleaverage 

thought  so)  did  Lance  look  up.  Light  footed, 
careless  of  mien,  he  circled  the  house  once,  still 
humming  under  his  breath,  and  striking  those 
odd,  tentative  chords  on  the  banjo.  Then, 
abruptly,  when  she  had  realized  her  position  and 
would  have  hidden  herself,  or  put  out  the  candle 
which  betrayed  her,  he  stopped  under  her  window 
and  with  upflung  head  was  smiling  straight  into 
her  eyes.  She  rallied  her  forces  and  prepared 
for  the  duel  which  always  ensued  when  she  and 
Lance  met.  She  would  give  him  as  good  as  he 
sent.  She  would  tell  him  that  she  had  stayed 
away  from  church  for  fear  she  should  see  him.  If 
he  hinted  that  she  had  expected  this  visit,  she 
would  —  she  would  say  - 

But  this  was  a  new  Lance  Cleaverage  looking 
into  her  eyes  —  a  man  Callista  had  never  seen 
before.  Subtly  she  knew  it,  yet  scarcely  dared 
trust  the  knowledge.  The  young  fellow  below 
in  the  moonlight  sent  up  no  challenge  to  a  trial 
of  wits ;  he  offered  her  no  opportunity  for  sarcastic 
retort.  Tossing  aside  his  hat,  making  ready  his 
banjo,  he  lifted  his  head  so  that  the  lean,  dark 
young  face  with  its  luminous  eyes  was  raised  fully 
to  her  in  the  soft  radiance,  and  struck  some  chords 
— strange,  thrilling,  importunate  chords  —  then 
began  to  sing. 

The  serenade  is  a  cherished  courtship  custom  of 
primitive  societies.  Lance  Cleaverage,  the  best 
banjo  player  in  the  Turkey  Tracks,  with  a  flexible, 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  65 

vibrant,  colorful  baritone  voice,  had  often  gone 
serenading  with  the  other  boys ;  but  this  - 
tonight —  was  different.  He  felt  like  singing,  and 
singing  to  Callista ;  for  the  moment  it  was  his  form 
of  expression.  What  he  sang  was  his  own  version 
of  an  old-world  ballad,  with  his  love's  name  in 
place  of  the  Scottish  girl's  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  three  hundred  years  ago  in  the  high- 
lands of  another  hemisphere.  Unashamed,  un- 
afraid —  would  anything  ever  make  Lance  either 
ashamed  or  afraid  ?  —  he  stood  in  the  white  moon- 
light and  sent  forth  his  passionate,  masterful  call 
of  love  on  the  wings  of  song. 

Callista's  heart  beat  wildly  against  her  arms 
where  she  rested  on  the  window  sill.  Her  lips 
were  apart,  and  the  breath  came  through  them 
quick  and  uneven.  Despite  herself,  she  leaned 
forward  and  looked  back  into  the  eyes  that  gazed 
up  at  her.  Was  this  Lance,  the  indifferent, 
taunting,  insouciant,  here  under  her  window  alone, 
looking  up  so  at  her  —  playing,  singing,  to  her? 
Oh,  yes,  it  was  Lance.  He  wanted  her,  said  the 
swift  importunate  notes  of  the  banjo,  the  pleading 
tones  of  his  voice,  the  bold  yet  loverlike  attitude 
of  the  man.  He  wanted  her.  Well  —  a  flood 
of  tender  warmth  rose  in  her  —  she  wanted  him ! 
For  the  first  time  probably  in  her  life — misshapen, 
twisted  to  the  expression  of  the  coquette,  the  high 
and  mighty,  scornful  miss  who  finds  no  lover  to 
her  taste  —  Callista  was  all  a  woman.  The  fires 


66  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  her  nature  flamed  to  answer  the  kindred  fire 
of  his.  The  last,  teasing  note  of  the  banjo  qua- 
vered into  silence.  Lance  pulled  the  ribbon  over 
his  head,  laid  the  instrument  by  —  without  ever 
taking  his  eyes  from  her  face  —  and  said,  hardly 
above  a  whisper, 

"Callista,  honey,  come  down." 

No  retort  was  ready  for  him. 

"I  —  oh,  I  can't,  Lance,"  was  all  Callista  could 
utter. 

With  a  "Well,  I'm  a-comin'  up  there,  then," 
he  sprang  into  the  muscadine  vine  whose  rope-like 
trunks  ran  up  around  the  doorway  below  her. 
She  only  caught  her  breath  and  watched  in  des- 
perate anxiety  the  reckless  venture.  And  when  he 
reached  the  level  of  her  window,  when,  swinging 
insecurely  in  a  loop  of  the  vine,  he  stretched  his 
arms  to  her,  ready  arms  answered  him  and  went 
round  his  neck.  A  face  passion  pale  was  raised  to 
him,  and  eager,  tremulous  lips  met  his. 

They  drew  apart  an  instant,  then  Callista  - 
overwhelmed,  frightened  at  herself  —  with  a  swift 
movement  hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  He  bent 
over  her,  and  laid  his  dark  cheek  against  hers,  that 
was  like  a  pearl.  His  arms  drew  her  closer,  closer; 
the  two  young  hearts  beat  plungingly  against  each 
other.  The  arms  that  strained  Callista  so  hard 
to  Lance's  breast  trembled,  and  her  slender  body 
trembled  within  them.  Lance's  shining  eyes 
closed. 


"A  face  passion-pale  was  raised  to  him  and  eager  tremulous  lips  met  his." 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  67 

"  Callista — honey  --  darlin',"  he  whispered 
brokenly,  "  you  do  love  me." 

"  Oh,  Lance  —  Oh,  Lance !  "  she  breathed  back. 

And  then  his  lips  went  seeking  hers  once  more. 
She  lifted  them  to  him,  and  the  lovers  clung  long 
so.  The  world  swung  meaninglessly  on  in  space. 
The  two  clasped  close  in  each  other's  arms  were 
so  newly,  so  intensely,  blindingly,  electrically  awake 
to  themselves  and  to  each  other,  that  they  were 
utterly  insensible  to  all  else. 

Finally  Lance  raised  his  head  a  bit.  He  drew 
a  long,  sobbing  breath,  and  laying  his  face  once 
more  against  the  girl's  murmured  with  tender 
fierceness, 

"  An'  we  ain't  going  to  wait  for  no  spring,  neither. 
You'll  wed  me  to-morrow  —  well,  next  week, 
anyway"  —as  he  felt  her  start  and  struggle 
feebly. 

"Oh,  Lance  —  honey  —  no,"  she  began.  But 
he  cut  her  short  with  vehement  protestations  and 
demands.  He  covered  her  face,  her  hair,  her 
neck  with  kisses,  and  then  declared  again  and 
again,  in  a  voice  broken  with  feeling,  that  they 
would  be  wedded  the  next  week  —  they  wouldn't 
wait  —  they  wouldn't  wait. 

Shaken,  amazed  by  her  own  emotions,  terrified 
at  the  rush  of  his,  Callista  began  to  plead  with 
him;  and  when  that  availed  nothing,  save  to 
inflame  his  ardor,  her  cry  was, 

"  Yes,  Lance.     Yes  —  all  right  —  we  will.     We 


68  Lance  Cleaverage 

will,  Lance  —  whenever  you  say.  But  go  now, 
honey,  won't  you  —  please?  Oh,  Lance !  They'll 
be  coming  home  any  minute  now.  If  they  was  to 
find  you  here,  Lance  —  Won't  you  go  now,  please, 
honey?  Lance,  darlin',  please.  I'll  do  just  like 
you  say  —  next  week  —  any  time,  Lance.  Only 
go  now." 

There  was  no  sense  of  denying,  or  drawing 
herself  back,  in  Callista's  utterance.  It  was  only 
the  pleading  of  maiden  terror.  When  Lance 
acquiesced,  when  he  crushed  her  to  him  in  fare- 
well, her  arms  went  round  him  once  more,  almost 
convulsively;  with  an  equal  ardor,  her  lips  met 
the  fierce,  dominating  kiss  of  his. 

He  got  down  from  the  window,  his  head  whirling. 
Mechanically  he  found  his  banjo,  flung  the  rib- 
bon over  his  neck  and  turned  the  instrument 
around  so  that  it  hung  across  his  shoulders.  Thus, 
and  with  his  hat  again  tucked  under  his  arm, 
without  ever  looking  back  toward  the  house,  he 
walked  swiftly  and  unsteadily  away,  once  more 
through  the  young  chestnut  wood,  with  its  dap- 
plings  of  shadow  and  moonlight.  He  dipped  into 
the  hollow  where  the  spring  branch  talked  to 
itself  all  night  long  in  the  silence  and  the  darkness 
under  the  twisted  laurel  and  rhododendrons; 
once  more  he  stood  on  the  little  tonsured  hill 
above  the  church.  The  lights  were  out ;  they  had 
all  gone  home. 

Below  him  was  spread  his  world;  the  practised 


A  Dance  and  a  Serenade  69 

eye  of  this  free  night  rover  could  have  located 
every  farm  and  cabin,  as  it  all  lay  swimming  in 
this  wonderful,  bewitched  half-light.  Those  were 
his  kindred  and  his  people;  but  he  had  always 
been  a  lonely  soul  among  them.  The  outposts 
of  levity  which  he  had  set  about  the  citadel  of 
his  heart  had  never  been  passed  by  any.  To- 
night, with  an  upheaval  like  birth  or  death,  he 
had  broken  down  the  barriers  and  swept  another 
soul  in  beside  him ;  close  —  close.  He  would 
never  be  alone  again  —  never  again.  There 
would  always  be  Callista.  In  the  intoxication, 
the  ravishment  of  the  moment,  he  made  no  reckon- 
ing with  the  Callista  he  had  heretofore  known, 
the  Lance  that  had  been;  they  should  be  always 
as  now  on  this  night  of  magic. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    ASKING. 

ON    the    comb    of    a  tall   ridge  back   of  the 
Cleaverage  place,  Ola  Derf  caught  up  with 
Lance  at  last. 

"I  got  to  set  down  awhile  till  I  can  ketch  my 
breath,"  the  girl  said  jerkily.  "  I  reckon  I  run 
half  a  mile  hollerin'  yo'  name  every  step,  Lance 
Cleaverage  —  and  you  never  turned  yo'  head. 
I  believe  in  my  soul  you  beared  me  the  first  time 
I  called." 

Cleaverage  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  affirm 
or  deny.  He  flung  himself  back  on  the  fern  and 
pine  needles  with  his  hat  over  his  face^  and 
remarking,  "  Wake  me  up  when  you  get  your 
breath,"  affected  to  go  to  sleep.  Ola  Derf  was 
as  comfortable  a  companion  as  a  dog,  in  that 
you  could  talk  to  her  or  let  her  alone,  as  the 
humor  ran. 

A  cicada's  whir  overhead  swelled  to  a  pulsating 
screech  and  died  away.  The  woods  here  opened 
into  calm  and  lofty  spaces  which  at  a  little  distance 
began  to  be  dimmed  as  with  vaporized  sapphire  — 
the  blue  that  melted  the  hills  into  the  sky.  His 
eyes  were  caught  by  an  indigo-bird  in  the  branches 

70 


The  Asking  71 

—  a  drop  of  color  apparently  precipitated  by  this 
marvel  of  azure  held  in  solution  by  the  summer  air. 

It  was  the  morning  after  Lance  had  sung  to 
Callista  under  her  window,  and  his  mind  was  yet 
swimming  in  dreams  of  her.  He  was  roused  from 
these  by  Ola's  voice. 

"  Lance,"  she  began  and  broke  off.    "  Oh,  Lance,  I 
want  to  talk  to   you   about  —  about — "     Again 
her  voice  lapsed.    She  could  see  nothing  of  his  face. 
His  chest  rose  and  fell  rhythmically.     "  Lance  - 
air  you  asleep?  " 

"Huh-uh.  But  if  you  keep  on  talkin'  right 
good  maybe  I'll  get  to  sleep." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  the  snub,  but  addressed 
herself  once  more  to  what  seemed  a  difficult  bit  of 
conversational  tactics. 

"Lance,"  came  the  plaint  for  the  third  time, 
"I  wanted  to  name  Callista  Gentry  to  you. 
I  —  I  —  that  thar  gal  don't  care  the  rappin'  o'  her 
finger  about  you,  nor  any  man." 

Cleaverage,  with  the  memory  of  last  night  warm 
at  his  heart,  smiled  under  his  hat  brim  and  made 
no  answer,  save  a  little  derisive  sound  which 
might  have  meant  denial,  indifference,  or  mere 
good-humored  contempt  of  Ola  herself. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  Ola  nodded  to  her  own 
thought,  "they's  a  heap  of  'em  lets  on  not  to  like 
the  boys;  but  with  Callista  Gentry  hit  goes  to  the 
bone.  She  don't  care  for  nary  soul  in  this  round 
world  but  her  own  pretty  self.  She  'minds  me 


72  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  a  snake  —  a  white  snake,  if  ever  there  was  such 
a  thing.  You  look  at  her.  You  ain't  never  seen 
her  change  color,  whatever  came  or  went." 

The  picture  evoked  of  Callista's  flushed,  tender 
face  lying  upon  his  breast  made  the  pulses  of  the 
man  on  the  warm  pine  needles  leap. 

"Well,"  he  prompted  finally,  "what's  the 
trouble  ?  Are  you  a  true  friend,  that  doesn't  want 
me  to  get  snake  bit?  " 

Ola  laughed  out  a  short  laugh. 

"No,"  she  said,  drearily,  "I'm  just  a  fool  that's 
got  yo'  good  at  heart,  and  don't  like  to  see  you  get 
a  wife  that  cares  nothin'  for  you.  Thar  —  I've 
said  my  say.  Thar's  no  love  in  her,  and  thar's  no 
heart  in  her.  But  if  a  pretty  face  and  high  and 
mighty  ways  is  what  takes  you,  of  course  you 
can  follow  yo'  ruthers." 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Lance,  pushing  his  hat  back 
and  sitting  up.  He  cast  a  laughing,  sidelong 
glance  in  her  direction.  "Ola,"  he  said  softly, 
"I'm  a  goin'  to  let  you  into  a  secret.  The  gals 
has  pestered  me  all  my  life  long  with  too  much 
lovin',  and  my  great  reason  for  bein'  willin'  to 
have  Callista  Gentry  is  that  she  seems  like  you 
say,  sorter  offish." 

To  his  intense  surprise  (he  had  been  wont  to 
jest  much  more  hardily  with  her  than  this),  Ola's 
face  flushed  suddenly  a  dark,  burning  red.  She 
jumped  to  her  feet  like  a  boy. 

"All  right,"   she  said   in   a  throaty  tone,  her 


The  Asking  73 

countenance  turned  away  from  him.  "If  that's 
so,  I'm  sorry  I  spoke.  Tell  Miz.  Cleaverage  all 
about  it  —  and  all  about  me  and  the  other 
gals  that  run  after  you  so  tumble.  I  don't 
care." 

But  half  way  down  the  ridge  her  swift,  angry, 
steps  began  to  lag,  and  a  little  further  on  Lance 
overtook  her. 

"They's  a-goin'  to  be  a  dance  at  our  house 
a- Wednesday,"  she  said  in  a  penitent  voice. 
"You're  a-comin',  ain't  you,  Lance?" 

"Nope,"  returned  the  invited  guest  briefly. 

He  volunteered  no  excuse  or  explanation;  and 
so,  when  the  parting  of  their  ways  was  reached, 
she  demanded  with  imploring  eyes  on  his  face, 

"Ye  ain't  mad  with  me,  air  ye,  Lance?  Why 
won't  you  come  to  my  party?" 

"Got  somethin'  else  to  do,"  Cleaverage  returned 
nonchalantly.  "Callista  and  me  is  goin'  to  be 
married  a- Wednesday  night." 

Ola  fell  back  a  step,  and  clutched  the  sunbonnet 
which  she  carried  rolled  in  her  hands. 

"You're  a  —  w'y,  Lance — you're  jest  a  foolin'," 
she  faltered. 

Lance  shook  his  head  lightly,  without  a  word. 

"  But  —  why,  I  was  over  at  Gentry's  this 
morning,"  she  exclaimed  finally.  "Nobody  thar 
said  anything  about  it."  She  still  watched  his 
face  incredulously.  "They  shorely  would  have 
said  somethin',  if  Callista  had  named  the  day." 


74  Lance  Cleaverage 

"She  never  named  it,"  said  Lance  easily.  "I 
named  it  myself,  back  there  on  the  ridge  whilst 
you  was  catchin'  your  breath  —  or  wastin'  it. 
We  had  allowed  that  a  week  from  yesterday  would 
do  us,  but  it  sort  of  come  over  me  that  Wednesday 
was  the  right  time,  and  I'm  goin'  along  by  there 
right  now  to  settle  it  all.  Reckon  if  you  folks  are 
givin'  a  dance  you  won't  heed  a  invite?  Good- 
bye," and  he  turned  away  on  his  own  trail. 

Swift,  unsmiling,  preoccupied  as  a  wild  thing 
on  its  foreordained  errand  —  the  hart  to  the  spring, 
the  homing  bird  —  Cleaverage  made  his  way  to 
the  Gentry  place.  Callista  felt  him  coming  before 
he  turned  into  the  big  road;  she  saw  him  while 
yet  the  leafage  of  the  door  maples  would  have 
confused  any  view  less  keen.  She  longed  to  flee. 
Then  in  a  blissful  tremor  she  could  do  nothing  but 
remain.  Octavia  Gentry,  carrying  hanks  of  carpet 
chain  to  the  dye-pot  in  the  yard,  caught  sight  of 
him  and  called  out  a  greeting. 

"  Is  Mr.  Gentry  about  the  place  ?  "  Lance  asked 
her,  as  he  lingered  a  moment  with  Callista's  eyes 
on  him  from  the  doorway. 

"Yes,  Pappy's  makin'  ready  to  go  down  to 
the  Settlement,  and  he  ain't  been  to  the  field 
to-day.  He's  in  the  house  somewhar's.  Did 
you  want  to  see  him  special,  Lance?  " 

Cleaverage  made  no  direct  reply ;  and  the  widow 
added, 

"Thar  he  is,  right  now,"  as  Ajax  Gentry  stepped 


The  Asking  75 

out  into  the  open  passage  with  a  bit  of  harness 
in  his  hand  which  he  was  mending.  A  certain 
gravity  fell  on  her  manner  as  the  two  walked 
toward  the  house.  It  went  through  her  mind  that 
Cleaverage  had  never  formally  asked  for  Callista, 
and  that  now  he  was  about  to  do  so.  She  lifted 
her  head  proudly  and  glanced  round  at  him. 
Lance  Cleaverage  was  not  only  the  best  match  in 
the  whole  Turkey  Track  region,  but  he  had  been 
the  least  oncoming  of  all  "Sis's  love-yers."  You 
never  could  be  sure  whether  Lance  wanted  the  girl 
or  was  merely  amusing  himself;  and  Octavia  had 
always  been  strongly  set  upon  the  match.  When 
they  came  to  the  porch  edge,  Lance  seated  himself 
upon  it  and  looked  past  the  old  man  to  where 
Callista's  flower  face  was  dimly  discernible  in  the 
entry  beyond. 

"Good  morning/'  he  said  impersonally.  "I'm 
glad  to  find  you  at  home,  Mr.  Gentry.  I  stopped 
a-past  to  name  it  to  you-all  that  Callista  and  me 
has  made  up  our  minds  to  be  wed  a- Wednesday 
evening." 

There  was  a  soft  exclamation  from  within; 
but  mother  and  grandfather  remained  dumb  with 
astonishment.  Cleaverage  glanced  round  at  them 
with  a  slight  impatience  in  his  hazel  eyes  that  held 
always  the  fiery,  tawny  glint  in  their  depths.  He 
detested  having  people  receive  his  announcements 
as  though  they  were  astonishing  —  that  is,  unless 
it  was  his  humor  to  astonish. 


76  Lance  Cleaverage 

"  Well,"  Grandfather  Gentry  began  after  a  time, 
"ain't  this  ruther  sudden?  " 

"Marryin'  has  to  be  done  all  of  a  sudden," 
Lance  remarked  without  rancor.  "I  never  yet 
have  heard  of  gettin'  married  gradual." 

"Why,  Lance,  honey,"  said  the  widow  in  a 
coaxing  tone,  "you  ain't  rightly  ready  for  a 
wife,  air  ye  ?  Ef  you  two  young  folks  had  named 
this  to  me  —  well,  six  months  ago  —  I'd  'a'  had 
Callista's  settin'  out  in  good  order.  Looks  like 
Pappy's  right,  and  it  is  sorter  suddent." 

"What  do  you  say,  Callista?"  inquired  the 
postulant  bridegroom  without  looking  up. 

In  the  soft  dusk  of  the  interior  the  girl's  face 
was  crimson.  Here  came  the  time  when  she 
could  no  longer  pretend  to  be  urged  into  the  mar- 
riage by  her  mother,  her  grandfather,  the  course 
of  events;  but  must  say  "yes"  or  ano"  openly 
of  her  own  motion.  Last  night's  startling  accost 
yet  shook  her  young  heart;  the  glamour  of  that 
hour  came  back  upon  her  senses. 

"I  say  whatever  you  say,  Lance,"  she  uttered, 
scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

Ajax  Gentry  laughed  out. 

"Well  —  I  reckon  that  settles  it,"  he  said, 
jingling  his  harness  and  turning  to  leave. 

"No  —  it  don't  settle  nothin',"  broke  in  Oc- 
tavia  anxiously.  "Lance  ain't  got  any  land 
cleared  to  speak  of  over  on  his  place,  and  he  ain't 
put  in  any  crop ;  how  air  the  both  of  'em  to  live  ? 


The  Asking  77 

They'll  just  about  have  obliged  to  stay  here  with 
us.  You  can  find  work  for  Lance  on  the  farm, 
cain't  ye,  Pappy?  " 

Old  Ajax  measured  his  prospective  grand-son- 
in-law  with  a  steady  eye,  and  assured  himself 
that  there  was  not  room  on  the  farm  nor  in  the 
house  for  two  masters.  He  read  mastery  in  every 
line  of  face  and  figure.  Lance  got  to  his  feet  so 
suddenly  that  he  might  have  been  said  to  leap  up. 

"  I've  built  me  a  good  cabin,  and  it's  all  ready. 
Callista  and  me  are  goin'  into  no  house  but  our 
own,"  he  said  brusquely.  "Ain't  that  so,  Cal- 
lista?" 

Again  the  girl  within  the  doorway  answered 
in  that  hushed,  almost  reluctant  voice, 

"Just  as  you  say,  Lance." 
And  though  grandfather  laughed,  and  Mother 
Gentry  objected   and   even  scolded,   that  ended 
the  argument. 

"  I'll  stop  a-past  and  leave  the  word  at  Hands's," 
Lance  told  them  as  he  turned  to  go.  "Is  there 
anyone  else  you'd  wish  me  to  bid,  mother?  " 

That  "  mother, "  uttered  in  Lance's  golden  tones, 
went  right  to  the  widow's  sentimental  heart.  She 
would  have  acceded  to  anything  he  had  pro- 
posed in  such  a  way.  Old  Ajax  smiled,  realizing 
that  Lance  meant  to  triumph  once  for  all  over 
Flenton  Hands. 

As  Cleaverage  walked  away,  the  mother 
prompted,  almost  indignantly, 


y8  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Why  didn't  ye  go  down  to  the  draw-bars 
with  him,  Callista?  I  don't  think  that's  no  way 
to  say  farewell  to  a  young  man  when  you've  just 
been  promised." 

Gentry  looked  at  his  daughter-in-law  through 
narrowed  eyes,  then  at  Callista;  his  glance  fol- 
lowed Lance  Cleaverage 's  light-footed  departure 
a  moment,  and  then  he  delivered  himself. 

"I  ain't  got  nothing  agin  your  marryin'  Lance 
Cleaverage  Wednesday  evening,"  he  said  con- 
cisely to  Callista.  "  I  ain't  been  axed ;  but  ef  I 
had  been,  my  say  would  still  be  the  same.  All 
I've  got  to  tell  you  is  that  thar  was  never  yet  a 
house  built  of  logs  or  boards  or  stones  that  was 
big  enough  to  hold  two  families." 

"Why,  Pap  Gentry!"  exclaimed  Octavia  in  a 
scandalized  tone.  "This  house  is  certainly  Cal- 
lista's  home,  and  I'm  sure  I  love  Lance  as  well  as 
I  ever  could  a  own  son.  If  they  thought  well  to 
live  here  along  of  us  this  winter,  I  know  you 
wouldn't  hold  to  that  talk." 

"  I  reckon  you  don't  know  me  so  well  as  ye 
'lowed  ye  did,"  observed  Gentry;  "for  I  would 
-  and  do.  Lance  Cleaverage  has  took  up  with 
the  crazy  notion  of  marryin'  all  in  haste.  He 
ain't  got  no  provision  for  livin'  on  that  place  of 
his.  Well,  I  tell  you  right  now,  he  cain't  come 
and  live  in  my  house.  No,  nor  you  cain't  pack 
victuals  over  to  'em  to  keep  'em  up." 

A  coquette  according  to  mountain  ideals,  carry- 


The  Asking  79 

ing  her  head  high  with  the  boys,  famous  for  her 
bickerings  with  Lance,  Callista  Gentry  had  always 
been  a  model  at  home,  quiet,  tractable,  obedient. 
But  the  face  she  now  turned  upon  her  grand- 
father was  that  of  a  young  fury.  All  her  cold 
pride  was  up  in  arms.  That  secret,  still  spirit 
of  hers,  haughty,  unbent,  unbroken,  reared  it- 
self to  give  the  old  man  to  understand  that  she 
wanted  nothing  of  him  from  this  on.  She  - 
Lance's  wife  —  the  idea  of  her  begging  food  from 
Grandfather  Gentry! 

"If  you  two'll  hush  and  let  me  speak,"  she 
said  in  an  even  tone,  "I  reckon  I'll  be  able  to  set 
grandpappy's  mind  at  rest.  You  can  give  me 
the  wedding  —  I  reckon  you  want  to  do  so  much 
as  that  for  your  own  good  name.  But  bite  or 
sup  I'll  never  take  afterwards  in  this  house.  No, 
I  won't.  So  far  from  carryin'  victuals  out  of  it, 
you'll  see  when  I  come  in  I'll  have  somethin'  in 
my  hand,  grandpap.  I  invite  you  and  mother 
right  now  to  take  yo'  Sunday  dinners  with  me 
when  you  want  to  ride  as  far  as  the  Blue  Spring 
church.  But  "  -  —  she  went  back  to  it  bitterly 
-  "  bite  or  sup  in  this  house  neither  me  nor  Lance 
will  ever  take."  Then,  her  eyes  bright,  her 
usually  pale  cheeks  flaming,  she  turned  and  ran 
up  the  steep  little  stairs  to  her  own  room.  Octavia 
looked  reproach  at  her  father-in-law;  but  Ajax 
Gentry  spat  scornfully  toward  the  vacant  fire- 
place, and  demanded, 


8o  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Now  she's  a  pretty  somebody  for  a  man  to 
wed  and  carry  to  his  home,  ain't  she?  I  say, 
Sunday  dinners  with  her!  Can  she  mix  a  decent 
pone  o'  corn  bread,  and  bake  it  without  burnin' 
half  her  fingers  off?  She  cain't.  Can  she  cut 
out  a  hickory  shirt  and  make  it?  She  cain't. 
Could  she  kill  a  chicken  and  pick  and  clean  it  and 
cook  it  —  could  she  do  it  ef  she  was  a  starvin'  ? 
She  could  not.  She  cain't  so  much  as  bile  water 
without  burnin'  it.  She  don't  know  nothin'  - 
nothin'  but  the  road.  She's  shore  a  fine  bargain 
for  a  man  to  git.  To  have  a  passel  o'  fool  boys 
follerin'  after  her  and  co'tin'  her,  that's  all  Cal- 
listy's  ever  studied  about,  or  all  you  ever  studied 
about  for  her." 

"Well,  pappy,"  Octavia  bridled,  considerably 
stung,  "  I  don't  think  you'  got  much  room  to  talk. 
In  yo'  young  days,  from  all  I  ever  heared  — 
either  from  you  or  from  others  —  you  was  about 
as  flighty  with  the  gals,  and  had  about  as  many 
of  'em  follerin'  after  you,  as  Sis  is  with  the  boys." 

She  looked  up  at  her  father-in-law  where  he 
lounged  against  the  fire-board.  Grandly  tall  was 
old  Ajax  Gentry,  carrying  his  seventy  years  and 
his  crown  of  silver  like  an  added  grace.  His 
blue  eye  had  the  cold  fire  of  Callista's,  and  his 
lean  sinewy  body,  like  hers,  showed  the  long, 
flowing  curves  of  running  water. 

"O-o-o-oh!"  he  rejoined,  with  an  indescribable 
lengthened  circumflex  on  the  vowel  that  lent  it 


The  Asking  81 

a  world  of  meaning.  "O-o-o-oh!  ...  a  man! 
Well  —  that's  mighty  different.  If  a  feller's  got 
the  looks  —  and  the  ways  —  he  can  fly  'round 
amongst  the  gals  for  a  spell  whilst  he's  young  and 
gaily,  and  it  don't  do  him  no  harm.  There's  some 
that  the  women  still  f oiler  after,  even  when  he's 
wedded  and  settled  down"  (Ajax  smiled  reminis- 
cently) .  "  But  when  a  man  marries  a  gal,  he 
wants  a  womern  —  a  womern  that'll  keep  his 
house,  and  cook  his  meals,  and  raise  his  chillen 
right.  The  kind  o'  tricks  Callisty's  always  pinned 
her  faith  to  ain't  worth  shucks  in  wedded  life. 
Ef  I  was  a  young  feller  to-morrow,  I  wouldn't 
give  a  chaw  o'  tobaccer  for  a  whole  church-house 
full  o'  gals  like  Callisty,  an'  I've  told  you  so 
a-many's  the  time.  Yo'  Maw  Gentry  wasn't  none 
o'  that  sort  —  yo'  mighty  right  she  wasn't !  She 
could  cook  and  weave  and  tend  a  truck  patch  and 
raise  chickens  to  beat  any  womern  in  the  Turkey 
Tracks,  Big  and  Little.  I  say,  Sunday  dinner  with 
Callisty ! "  he  repeated .  "  Them  that  goes  to  her  for 
a  dinner  had  better  pack  their  victuals  with  'em." 

Octavia  gathered  up  her  hanks  of  carpet-warp 
and  started  for  the  door. 

"All  right,  Pappy,"  she  said  angrily.  "All 
right.  I  raised  the  gal  best  I  knowed  how. 
I  reckon  you  think  the  fault  —  sence  you  see  so 
much  fault  in  her  —  comes  from  my  raisin' ;  but 
I  know  mighty  well  an'  good  that  the  only  trouble 
/  ever  had  with  Sis,  was  'count  o'  her  Gentry  blood. 


82  Lance  Cleaverage 

How  you  can  expect  the  cookin'  o'  corn  pones  and 
makin'  o'  hickory  shirts  from  a  gal  that's  always 
got  every  man  in  reach  plumb  distracted  over  her, 
is  more'n  I  can  see."  Octavia  went  out  hastily 
before  her  father-in-law  could  make  the  ironic 
reply  which  she  knew  to  expect;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  Ajax  himself  moved  away  toward 
the  log  stable  to  begin  his  harnessing. 

Callista  had  hurried  to  her  bedroom,  slammed 
the  door,  and  was  alone  with  her  own  heart.  As 
for  Lance,  walking  beneath  the  chestnuts,  he  had 
no  wish  to  have  her  beside  him  under  the  old 
man's  humorous,  semi -sarcastic  gaze  and  his 
prospective  mother-in-law's  sentimental,  examin- 
ing eye.  He  wanted  her  to  himself.  He  thought 
with  a  mighty  surge  of  rapture  of  the  approaching 
time  when  they  could  shut  out  all  the  world  and 
find  once  more  that  island  of  delight  where  they 
should  dwell  the  only  created  beings.  He,  to 
share  his  honeymoon  with  the  Gentry  family !  He 
laughed  shortly  at  the  thought. 

It  was  Little  Liza  that  opened  the  Hands  door 
to  him,  and  her  light  eyes  softened  unwillingly  as 
they  beheld  his  alert  figure  on  the  step.  Little 
Liza  was  tormented  with  an  incongruously  soft 
heart,  painfully  accessible  to  the  demands  of 
beauty  and  charm. 

"Howdy,"  she  said.  She  had  not  seen  Lance 
Cleaverage  since  the  day  of  the  funeral;  but  she 
had  heard  from  her  brother  and  her  sisters  that 


The  Asking  83 

his  behavior  on  that  occasion  was  unseemly,  if  not 
positively  disrespectful. 

Lance  barely  returned  her  greeting,  then  he 
broached  his  errand. 

"Jane!  Ellen!  Oh,  Flent!"  she  called  distress- 
fully, when  she  had  his  news.  ''Come  on  out. 
Lance  Cleaverage  is  here,  waitin'  to  invite  you 
to  his  weddin'." 

The  two  sisters  came  out  on  the  porch,  but 
Flenton  did  not  make  his  appearance. 

"Howdy,  Lance.  Who  is  it?"  inquired  Ellen 
Hands.  "Callista  Gentry  hasn't  took  you,  has 
she?" 

"Well,"  drawled  Lance,  lifting  a  laughing  eye 
to  the  line  of  big,  gray-faced  women  on  the  rude, 
puncheon-floored  gallery,  "you  can  make  it  out 
best  way  you  find.  The  weddin'  is  to  be  held  at 
the  Gentry  place.  If  it  ain't  Callista,  it's  some- 
body mighty  like  her." 

Little  Liza's  lip  trembled. 

"You  Lance  Cleaverage,"  she  said  huskily, 
"  you're  a-gettin'  the  sweetest  prettiest  thing  that 
ever  walked  this  earth.  I  do  know  that  there 
ain't  the  man  livin'  that's  fit  for  Callisty.  I  hope 
to  the  Lord  you'll  be  good  to  her." 

Again  Lance  regarded  the  doleful  visages  before 
him  and  laughed. 

"  You-all  look  like  I'd  bid  you  to  a  funeral  rather 
than  to  a  weddin', "  he  said,  lingering  a  bit  to  see 
if  Flenton  would  show  himself. 


84  Lance  Cleaverage 

Hands  was  just  inside  the  window.  He  knew 
well  what  had  been  said.  Nothing  could  have 
been  less  to  his  taste  than  the  going  out  to  receive 
such  an  invitation. 

"Thar  —  you  see  now,  Flent, "  said  Little  Liza 
tragically,  as  she  encountered  her  brother  when 
they  turned  from  watching  Lance  away.  "  You've 
lost  her.  Oh,  law!  I  always  thought  if  I  could 
call  Callisty  Gentry  sister,  it  would  make  me  the 
happiest  critter  in  the  world." 

"You  may  have  a  chance  so  to  call  her  yet," 
said  Hands,  who  showed  any  emotion  the  announc- 
ment  may  have  roused  in  him  only  by  an  added 
tightening  of  lip  and  eye.  "  Wednesday  ain't 
come  yet  —  and  hit  ain't  gone." 

"Well,  hit'll  come  and  hit'll  go,"  said  Ellen 
heavily.  "  Lance  Cleaverage  gits  what  he  starts 
after,  and  that's  the  fact." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Little  Liza,  "he  shore  does.  I 
don't  reckon  I  could  have  said  no  to  him  myself." 

"Lance  Cleaverage!"  echoed  her  brother. 
"Well,  he's  born  —  but  he  ain't  buried.  I  never 
did  yet  give  up  a  thing  that  I'd  set  my  mind 
on.  I  ain't  said  I've  given  up  Callista  Gentry." 

The  three  looked  at  him  rather  wildly.  Talk  of 
this  sort  is  unknown  among  the  mountain  people. 
Yet  they  could  but  feel  the  woman's  admiration 
for  his  masculine  high-handedness  of  speech. 

At  the  Cleaverage  place  they  were  making 
ready  for  the  noonday  meal  when  Lance  brought 


The  Asking  85 

his  news  home.  The  table,  with  its  cloth  of  six 
flour-sacks  sewed  end  to  end,  was  set  in  the  cool 
entry.  The  Dutch  oven,  half  buried  in  ashes,  was 
full  of  buttermilk-dodgers,  keeping  hot.  At  the 
other  side  of  the  broad  hearthstone,  Roxy  Griever 
bent  above  a  dinner-pot  dishing  up  white  beans 
and  dumplings.  Beside  her  Mary  Ann  Martha 
held  a  small  yellow  bowl  and  made  futile  dabs 
with  a  spoon  she  had  herself  whittled  from  a  bit 
of  shingle,  trying  to  get  beans  into  it.  Her 
mother's  reproofs  dropped  upon  her  tousled  and 
incorrigible  head  with  the  regularity  of  clock- 
work. 

"You,  Mary  Ann  Marthy,  I  do  know  in  my 
soul  you'  the  worst  child  the  Lord  ever  made: 
Where  do  you  expect  to  go  to  when  you  die? 
Look  at  that  thar  good  victuals  all  splattered 
out  in  the  ashes.  That's  yo'  doin'.  You'  jest 
adzackly  like  yo'  uncle  Lance." 

Then  Sylvane,  who  was  shaping  an  axe-helve 
in  the  doorway,  looked  up  and  said,  "Here  comes 
Lance  himself."  And  Kimbro  Cleaverage  pushed 
another  chair  towards  the  table. 

"Well,"  said  the  bridegroom  expectant,  looking 
about  on  the  shadowed  interior  of  the  cabin,  dim 
to  his  eyes  after  the  glare  outside,  "I've  got  a 
invite  for  you-all  to  a  weddin'." 

"  Not  you  and  Callista?  "  exclaimed  Sylvane,  his 
boyish  face  glowing.  "  Oh,  Lance  —  she  ain't 
said  yes,  has  she?  " 


86  Lance  Cleaverage 

"No,  Buddy,"  Lance  flung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  you  saw  by  his  smile  the  strong  affection 
there  was  between  them,   "she  ain't  said  yes  - 
but  I  have.     I've  set  the  time  for  Wednesday, 
and   the   Gentry   place   is   all   uptore   right   now 
getting     ready     for    it.       I    reckon"    —his    eye 
gleamed    with    the    mischievous    afterthought  - 
"I  reckon  they'll  clear  the  big  barn  for  dancing." 

As  though  the  word  had  been  a  catch  released 
in  her  mechanism,  Roxy  Griever  straightened  up, 
spoon  in  hand,  with  a  snort. 

"You  Lance  Cleaverage  —  you  sinful  soul!" 
she  began,  pointing  her  bean  spoon  at  him  and 
thus  shedding  delightful  dribblings  of  the  stew 
which  Mary  Ann  Martha  instantly  scraped  up, 
"you  air  a-gettin'  the  best  girl  in  the  two  Turkey 
Tracks  —  and  here  you  take  the  name  of  dancin' 
on  yo'  sinful  lips  at  the  same  time!  " 

"  I  reckon  you'll  not  come  if  there's  goin'  to 
be  dancin',"  remarked  Lance,  hanging  up  his  hat 
and  seating  himself  at  the  table.  "  I  hadn't 
thought  of  that.  Well  —  we'll  have  to  get  along 
without  you." 

Roxy  snorted  inarticulate  reprobation.  Sud- 
denly she  demanded, 

"Sylvane,  whar's  that  branch  of  leaves  I  sent 
you  after?  " 

With  the  words,  Mary  Ann  Martha,  unnoticed 
by  her  mother,  abruptly  dropped  her  shingle 
spoon,  scrambled  across  Sylvane's  long  legs,  and 


The  Asking  87 

galloped  wildly  out  into  the  bit  of  orchard  beside 
the  house,  her  mass  of  almost  white  curling  hair 
flying  comically  about  her  bobbing  head,  a  pic- 
ture of  energetic  terror.  Her  young  uncle  looked 
after  her,  smiling  tolerantly,  and  said  nothing. 

"The  flies  '11  git  more  of  this  dinner  than  we'uns, 
if  we  don't  have  something.  Why'n't  you  git  me 
that  branch  o'  leaves,  Sylvane?"  persisted  his 
sister. 

"Well,  Sis'  Roxy,  I  wanted  to  finish  my  axe 
helve,  so  I  sub-contracted  that  order  o'  yourn," 
answered  Sylvane,  deprecatingly.  "  Sent  Ma'-An'- 
Marth'  out  to  git  a  small  limb." 

"For  the  land's  sake!  An'  her  not  taller 
than  -  began  Roxy  querulously.  But  her 
father  put  in,  with  pacific  intention, 

"Here's  the  chap  now  with  her  peach-tree 
branch.  Come  on,  Pretty;  let  Gran'pappy  put 
it  up  'side  o'  him  at  the  table.  Now  sons,  now 
daughter,  air  ye  ready  ?  This  is  a  bountiful  meal ; 
and  Roxy's  cooked  it  fine  as  the  best;  we're 
mightily  favored.  We'll  ax  God's  blessing  on  the 
food." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    WEDDING. 

WEDNESDAY  came,  a  glamorous  day  in  early 
September.  A  breath  of  autumn  had 
blown  upon  the  mountains  in  the  night,  leaving 
the  air  inspiring  —  tingling  cool  in  the  shade, 
tingling  hot  in  the  sun.  The  white  clouds  were 
vagabonds  of  May  time,  though  the  birds  were 
already  getting  together  in  flocks,  chattering, 
restless  for  migration.  Now  at  night  instead  of 
the  bright  come-and-go  of  fireflies  there  was  a 
mild  and  steady  lamping  of  glowworms  in 
the  evening  grass.  The  katydids'  chorus  had 
dwindled,  giving  place  to  the  soft  chirr  of  ground 
and  tree-crickets.  There  was  a  pleasant,  high- 
pitched  rustle  in  the  stiffening  leaves;  the  dew 
was  heavy  in  the  hollows,  gray  under  the  moon. 

All  day  the  woods  were  silent,  except  for  the 
mocking  whirr  of  grasshoppers  rising  into  the 
sunshine,  and  an  occasional  squabble  of  crows  in 
pursuit  of  a  hawk. 

Wild  grapes  were  ripe  —  delicious,  tart,  keen- 
flavored  things.  In  the  pasture  hollow  a  fleece 
of  goldenrod,  painted  on  the  purple  distance  along 
with  the  scarlet  globes  of  orchard  fruit,  was 
stripped  by  laughing  girls  for  Callista's  wedding 


The  Wedding  89 

decorations.  Yes,  summer  was  definitely  de- 
parted ;  a  new  presence  was  here,  an  autumn  wind 
in  the  treetops,  an  autumn  light  on  the  meadow, 
an  autumn  haze  on  the  hills  —  a  fine  luminous 
purple,  flecked  with  lights  of  rose  and  gold. 

The  Gentry  place,  with  its  central  house  of 
some  pretensions  and  its  numerous  outlying  cabins, 
presented  on  Wednesday  after-noon  something  the 
appearance  of  a  village  undergoing  sack.  Open 
doors  and  windows,  heaps  of  stuff,  or  bundles  of 
household  gear,  or  sheaves  of  garments  being 
carried  from  place  to  place,  suggested  this  im- 
pression, which  seemed  further  warranted  by  the 
female  figures  emerging  suddenly  now  and  again 
from  one  cabin  or  another  and  fleeing  with  dis- 
heveled hair,  wild  gestures  and  incoherent  bab- 
blings as  of  terror,  to  some  other  refuge.  The 
girls  had  not  come  in  yet  from  the  pasture  with 
their  armloads  of  goldenrod  and  wild  aster;  but 
all  three  of  the  Hands  sisters  —  good,  faithful 
souls,  neighborhood  dependences  for  extra  help 
at  weddings  and  funerals  —  were  hard  at  work 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  turmoil. 

"Liza,  have  you  seed  Callista  anywhar's?" 
panted  Octavia  Gentry,  appearing  in  the  main 
house,  laden  with  a  promiscuous  assortment  of 
clothing. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  rumbled  Little  Liza  from  the  chair 
on  which  she  stood  adjusting  the  top  of  a  window 
curtain. 


90  Lance  Cleaverage 

"  I  thought  I  beared  Lance's  banjo  awhile  ago," 
added  the  widow  as  she  folded  and  disposed  of 
the  garments  she  had  brought  in,  "  and  then  I 
didn't  hear  it  any  more.  I  have  obliged  to  get 
hold  of  Callista  to  tell  me  whar  she  wants  these 
things  put  at." 

"Yes,  and  you  did  hear  Lance  Cleaverage's 
banjo,"  confirmed  Little  Liza  sadly.  "Callisty 
heared  it,  too.  She  come  a-steppin'  down  from 
her  room  like  as  if  he'd  called  her,  and  she's  walked 
herself  out  of  the  front  door  and  up  the  road 
alongside  o'  him,  and  that's  why  you  don't  hear 
the  banjo  no  more." 

"Good  land!"  cried  the  mother-in-law  that  was 
to  be.  "  I  don't  know  what  young  folks  is  thinkin' 
of  —  no,  I  don't.  It  ain't  respectable  for  a  bride 
and  groom  to  walk  side  by  side  on  their  weddin' day. 
Everybody  knows  that  much.  And  I've  got  to 
have  Callista  here.  Roxy  Griever's  sent  word  that 
she  cain't  come  to  the  weddin'  because  its  been 
given  out  to  each  and  every  that  they'd  be 
dancin'.  I  want  Callista  to  see  Lance  and  have 
that  stopped.  Hit's  jest  some  o'  Lance's  fool- 
ishness. You  know  in  reason  its  got  to  be 
stopped.  Oh,  Sylvane!"  as  a  boyish  figure 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Won't  you  go  hunt 
up  Callista  and  tell  her  I  want  her?  And  you 
tell  yo'  sister  Roxy  when  you  go  home  that  there 
ain't  goin'  to  be  any  dancin'  here  tonight.  And 
just  carry  these  here  pans  out  to  the  spring- 


The  Wedding  9* 

house  whilst  you're  about  it,  Sylvane.  And  if 
you  find  Ellen  Hands  there  tell  her  to  come 
on  in  to  me,  please.  I  vow,  nobody's  been 
for  the  cows !  Sylvane,  whilst  you're  out  you  go 
up  to  the  milk  gap  and  see  are  they  waitin' 
thar.  Let  down  the  draw-bars  for  'em  if  they 
are." 

Fifteen-year-old  Sylvanus  Cleaverage  laughed 
and  turned  quickly,  lest  further  directions  be 
given  him. 

"  All  right,"  he  called  back.  "  I'll  'tend  to  most 
of  those  things  —  as  many  of  'em  as  I  can  re- 
member." 

A  privileged  character,  especially  among  the 
women,  Sylvane  made  willing  haste  to  do  Octavia's 
errands.  The  boy  was  like  his  brother  Lance 
with  the  wild  tang  left  out,  and  feminine  eyes 
followed  his  young  figure  as  he  hurried  from 
spring-house  to  pasture  lot.  When  he  found 
Lance  and  Callista  walking  hand  in  hand  at  the 
meadow's  edge  he  gave  them  warning,  so  that  the 
girl  might  slip  in  through  the  back  door,  innocently 
unconscious  of  any  offence  against  the  etiquette 
of  the  occasion,  and  the  bridegroom  pass  on  down 
the  big  road,  undiscovered. 

"I  reckon  it's  jest  as  well  as  'tis,"  commented 
old  Ajax  from  the  security  of  the  front  door-yard, 
to  which  he  had  been  swept  out  and  cleaned  out 
in  the  course  of  the  preparations.  "Ef  Octavy 
had  been  give  a  year's  warnin',  she  would  have 


92  Lance  Cleaverage 

been  jest  about  tearin'  up  Jack  this-a-way  for  the 
whole  time." 

As  evening  fell,  teams  began  to  arrive,  and  the 
nearer  neighbors  came  in  on  foot,  with  a  bustle  of 
talk  and  a  settling  of  the  children.  Old  Kimbro 
Cleaverage  brought  his  daughter,  Roxy  Griever, 
with  little  Polly  Griever,  a  relative  of  Roxy's  de- 
ceased husband,  and  Mary  Ann  Martha. 

"  I  knowed  in  reason  you  wouldn't  have 
dancin'  on  yo'  place,"  the  widow  shrilled,  as  she 
approached.  Then  as  she  climbed  out  over  the 
wheel,  she  added  in  a  lower  tone  to  Little  Liza 
Hands,  who  had  come  out  to  help  her  down, 
"  But  that  thar  sinful  Lance  is  so  pestered  by  the 
davil  that  you  never  know  whar  he'll  come  up 
next,  and  I  sont  Miz.  Gentry  the  word  I  did  as  a 
warnin'.  Tham  men  has  to  be  watched." 

Callista  was  ready,  dressed  in  a  certain  white 
lawn  frock  —  not  for  worlds  would  she  have 
admitted  that  she  had  made  it  with  secret  hopes 
of  this  occasion.  The  helpers  were  still  rushing 
to  and  fro,  getting  the  wedding  supper  on  the  long 
tables,  contrived  by  boards  over  trestles,  on  the 
porch  and  in  the  big  kitchen,  when  Preacher 
Drumright  rode  sourly  up. 

It  was  Octavia  Gentry  who  had  been  instru- 
mental in  bespeaking  Drumright's  services  for  the 
marriage,  and  indeed  he  was  the  only  preacher  in 
the  Turkey  Track  neighborhoods  at  the  moment 
or  anywhere  nearer  than  the  Settlement  itself. 


The  Wedding  93 

The  church-going  element  of  the  region  stood 
before  this  somewhat  cantankerous  old  man  in  the 
attitude  of  confessed  offenders.  He  was  famous 
for  raking  the  young  people  over  the  coals,  and 
he  arrogated  to  himself  always  the  patriarch's 
privilege  of  scolding,  admonishing,  or  denouncing, 
whenever  the  occasion  might  seem  to  him  fit. 
For  ten  years  Drumright  had  longed  to  get  a  fair 
chance  at  Lance  Cleaverage.  Ever  since  the  boy 
-  and  he  was  the  youngest  in  the  crowd  - 
joined  with  a  half  dozen  others  to  break  up  a 
brush  meeting  which  Drumright  was  holding,  the 
preacher's  grudge  had  grown.  And  it  did  not 
thrive  without  food ;  Lance  was  active  in  the 
matter  of  providing  sustenance  for  the  ill  opinion 
of  the  church  party,  and  he  had  capped  his 
iniquities  by  taking  his  banjo  as  near  the  church 
as  the  big  spring  on  that  Sunday  in  mid-July. 
Drumright  had  prepared  the  castigating  he  meant 
to  administer  to  Lance  almost  as  carefully  as  he 
would  have  gotten  ready  a  sermon. 

With  the  advent  of  the  preacher  the  last  frantic 
preparations  were  dropped,  and  it  was  suddenly 
discovered  that  they  were  not  absolutely  necessary 
for  the  occasion.  The  guests  gathered  into  the 
big  front  room,  where  the  marriage  was  to  be. 
Drumright  took  his  stand  behind  a  small  table  at 
its  further  end;  Callista  came  down  the  stairs, 
joined  Lance  in  the  entry,  and  the  two  stepped 
into  the  room  hand  in  hand. 


94  Lance  Cleaverage 

That  was  a  daunting  front  to  address  with  re- 
proof. People  said  that  they  were  the  hand- 
somest couple  that  ever  stood  up  together  in  the 
two  Turkey  Tracks.  But  after  all,  it  was  some- 
thing more  than  physical  beauty  that  arrested 
the  eye  in  that  countenance.  Lance's  face  was 
lifted,  and  his  eyes  apparently  saw  not  the  room, 
the  preacher,  nor  even  the  girl  whose  hand  he 
held.  He  moved  a  thing  apart,  his  light,  swift 
step  timed  to  unheard  rhythms,  a  creature  swayed 
by  springs  which  those  about  him  knew  not  of, 
addressed  to  some  end  which  they  could  not  under- 
stand. And  Callista  seemed  to  look  only  to  him, 
to  live  only  in  him.  Her  fair  face  reflected  the 
strange  radiance  that  was  on  his  dark,  intense 
young  visage. 

It  was  Drumright's  custom  to  make  a  little  talk 
when  about  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony, 
so  there  was  neither  surprise  nor  apprehension 
as  he  began  to  speak. 

"  Befo'  I  can  say  the  words  that  shall  make  this 
here  man  and  this  here  woman  one  flesh,  I've  got 
a  matter  to  bring  up  that  I  think  needs  namin'." 

The  old  voice  rasped  aggressively,  and  a  little 
flutter  of  concern  passed  over  Drumright's  hearers. 

"The  Gentry  family  air  religious,  church-goin' 
people.  Why  Callista  Gentry  ain't  a  perfessin' 
member  in  the  church  this  day  is  more  than  I 
can  tell  you-all  here  and  now.  Like  enough  some 
will  say  hit  is  the  influence  of  the  man  a-standin' 


The  Wedding  95 

beside  her;  and  supposin'  this  to  be  so,  hit  cain't 
be  too  soon  named  out  to  'em." 

If  Lance  heard  any  word  of  Drumright's  ha- 
rangue, he  gave  no  sign ;  but  Callista  stirred 
uneasily,  her  nostrils  flickered,  and  she  glanced 
from  the  preacher  to  her  bridegroom. 

"I  wonder  in  my  soul,"  Drumright  went  on, 
"that  any  God-fearin'  family  would  give  they' 
child  to  a  man  that  has  been  from  his  cradle  up, 
as  a  body  may  say,  the  scoffer  that  you  air,  Lance 
Cleaverage." 

Thus  pointedly  addressed,  a  slight  start  passed 
through  the  bridegroom's  taut  body,  and 
Cleaverage  turned  a  half-awakened  eye  upon  the 
preacher. 

"Are  you  aimin'  to  get  'em  to  stop  the  mar- 
riage?" he  inquired  bluntly.  As  he  spoke,  he 
dropped  Callista's  hand,  caught  it  once  more  in 
the  grasp  of  his  other,  and  put  his  freed  arm 
strongly  about  her  waist.  Thus  holding  her,  he 
turned  a  little  to  face  her  mother  and  grand- 
father as  well  as  the  preacher. 

A  shock  went  through  the  crowded  room; 
pious  horror  and  amaze  on  the  part  of  the  older 
people;  among  the  younger  folk  a  twittering 
tremor  not  unmixed  with  delight  at  the  spirit  of 
the  bridegroom.  You  might  wince  beneath  the 
preacher's  castigations ;  you  might  privately  grum- 
ble about  them,  and  even  refuse  to  pay  anything 
toward  his  up-keep,  thereby  helping  to  starve 


96  Lance  Cleaverage 

his  wife  and  children;  but  that  you  should  pre- 
sume to  answer  a  preacher  in  the  pulpit  or  else- 
where in  the  performance  of  his  special  office,  was 
a  thing  inconceivable. 

The  bridegroom's  family  drew  together  at  one 
side  of  the  room,  Kimbro  Cleaverage,  in  his  de- 
cent best,  looking  half  affrightedly  at  the  man  who 
was  miscalling  his  son ;  Roxy  Griever,  divided  be- 
tween her  allegiance  to  the  caste  of  preachers,  all 
and  singular,  and  tribal  pride ;  Sylvane  clutching 
his  hands  into  fists,  and  hoping  that  Buddy  would 
get  the  better  of  the  argument ;  while  Mary  Ann 
Martha,  in  the  grasp  of  Polly  Griever,  glowered 
and  wondered. 

"Lance  Cleaverage,"  returned  Drumright  pon- 
derously, "  I  respect  yo'  father,  for  he's  a  good 
man.  I  respect  yo'  sister  —  she's  one  too ;  for 
their  sake  I  come  here  to  perform  this  marriage, 
greatly  agin  my  grain." 

He  was  taking  a  long  breath,  having  barely  got 
under  way,  when  Lance  stopped  him  with  a  curt, 

"  Well,  —  are  you  goin'  to  do  it  —  or  are  you 
not?" 

People  gazed  with  open  mouths  and  protruding 
eyes.  Where  were  the  lightnings  of  Heaven,  set 
apart  for  the  destruction  of  the  impious  ?  Drum- 
right  himself  was  momentarily  staggered. 

"Er,  yes  —  I  am,"  he  said  finally,  wagging  his 
head  in  an  obstinate,  bovine  shake.  "After  I've 
said  my  say,  I  aim  to  marry  ye." 


The  Wedding  97 

The  little  points  of  light  that  always  danced 
deep  down  in  Lance  Cleaverage's  eyes,  flamed  up 
like  clear  lamps  at  this  statement. 

"No,  you'll  not,"  he  said  promptly.  "You'll 
marry  us  now  —  or  not  at  all.  If  I  wanted  any 
of  your  talk,  I'd  come  to  your  church  and  get  it. 
I  don't  want  any." 

All  this  time  his  arm  had  been  round  Callista, 
the  hand  closed  on  her  slim  waist  gently,  but  with 
a  grip  of  steel.  Had  she  wished  to  stir  from  his 
side,  she  could  scarcely  have  done  so.  Now  he 
turned  toward  the  door  and  moved  quietly  away 
from  the  astonished  preacher,  taking  her  with 
him. 

"  Whar  —  whar  you  goin'  ?"  faltered  Drumright, 
dumbfounded. 

"Down  to  Sourwood  Gap  to  be  wedded,"  the 
bridegroom  flung  back  in  his  face.  "  Squire  Ashe 
is  up  there  from  Hepzibah  —  he'll  marry  us  with- 
out haulin'  us  over  the  coals  first."  And  he  made 
his  way  through  the  roomful  of  mute,  dazed, 
unprotesting  people.  At  the  door  he  paused, 
and,  with  the  air  of  a  man  alone  with  his  beloved 
in  desert  spaces,  bent  and  murmured  something 
in  the  ear  of  his  bride,  then  ran  lightly  down  the 
steps  and  out  into  the  dark  to  where  the  horses 
were  tethered.  He  returned  quickly,  leading  his 
two  black  ponies. 

He  found  that  in  the  few  moments  of  his  ab- 
sence the  company  had  awakened  to  the  enormity 


98  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  what  was  going  on.  There  were  a  half-dozen 
people  round  Callista,  most  of  them  talking. 
Little  Liza,  who  evidently  believed  that  the  finger 
of  the  Lord  was  in  it,  and  that  her  brother  Flenton 
was  at  last  going  to  get  the  girl  of  his  choice,  clung 
to  Callista's  hand  and  wept.  Flenton  himself 
stood  squarely  in  the  bride's  path,  speaking  low 
and  eagerly.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  room 
Octavia  Gentry  was  almost  in  hysterics  as  she 
labored  with  the  preacher,  trying  to  get  him  to 
say  that  he  would  marry  the  pair  at  once  if  they 
would  come  back.  Old  Ajax  had  retired  to  his 
corner  by  the  big  fireplace,  where  he  stood  smiling 
furtively,  and  slowly  rubbing  a  lean,  shaven  jaw,  as 
he  glanced  from  his  daughter-in-law  to  his  grand- 
daughter in  leisurely  enjoyment.  After  all,  there 
was  much  he  liked  well  in  Callista's  chosen. 

Roxana  Griever  had  flown  to  supplement 
Octavia's  entreaties  with  the  preacher.  Kimbro 
made  his  way  toward  the  door,  evidently  with 
some  half-hearted  intention  of  remonstrating  with 
his  son.  Sylvane  had  slipped  out  to  help  Lance 
with  the  horses — he  guessed  that  his  brother  never 
meant  to  ride  away  from  the  Gentry  place  alone. 

"He  ain't  fitten  for  you,  Callisty,"  Hands  was 
whispering  over  and  over.  "He  ain't  fitten  for 
you.  A  man  that  will  do  you  this-a-way  on  yo' 
wedding  day,  what  sort  o'  husband  is  he  goin' 
to  make?  Here's  me,  honey,  that's  loved  you  all 
your  life,  an'  been  a  member  o'  the  church  in 

I 


You  '11  marry  us  now — or  not  at  all." 


The  Wedding  99 

good  standin'  sence  I  was  twelve  years  old.  Cal- 
listy,  I'd  be  plumb  proud  to  lay  down  for  you  to 
walk  over.  You  take  me,  and  we'll  have  a  wed- 
din'  here  sure  enough." 

The  words  were  breathed  low  into  the  bride's 
ear ;  yet  attitude  and  air  were  eloquent,  and  Hands 's 
position  and  intentions  were  so  notorious,  that 
the  proposition  might  as  well  have  been  shouted 
aloud. 

"Lance  —  you  Lance!  Callista,  honey!"  im- 
plored the  mother's  voice  distressfully  above  the 
moving  heads  of  the  crowd.  "You  chillen  wait 
till  I  can  get  thar.  Preacher  says  he'll  wed  you 
now.  Come  on  back  in  here." 

"  Yes,  and  when  you  git  that  feller  back  in  here 
a-standin'  before  Preacher  Drumright  to  be  wed- 
ded, you'll  toll  a  wild  buck  up  to  a  tainted  spring," 
chuckled  old  Ajax  Gentry. 

Lance  only  smiled.  The  lover,  all  aglow,  re- 
jected with  contempt  this  maimed  thing  they 
would  thrust  upon  him  for  a  marriage.  He  was 
leading  Callista's  horse  to  the  porch-  edge  that  she 
might  mount,  when  he  glanced  up  and  found 
how  strongly  the  pressure  was  being  put  upon 
his  girl.  The  sight  arrested  his  hurrying  steps, 
and  turned  him  instantly  into  the  semblance  of 
an  indifferent  bystander. 

"  Honey,  they  say  a  good  brother  makes  a  good 
husband,"  Little  Liza  was  booming  on  in  what 
she  fondly  believed  was  a  tone  audible  only  to 


ioo  Lance  Cleaverage 

Callista.  "  I  tell  you  Flenton  is  the  best  brother 
any  gals  ever  had." 

Cleaverage  stood  gazing  at  them  with  eyes 
indecipherable,  then  —  turned  his  back. 

"And  look  at  Lance  Cleaverage,"  exhorted 
Little  Liza,  "a  drinkin',  coon-huntin',  banjo 
playin'  feller  that  don't  darken  the  doors  of  a 
church  —  his  own  sister  cain't  never  name  him 
without  tellin'  how  wicked  he  is.  Let  him  go, 
honey  —  you  let  him  go,  an'  take  Flent." 

Lance,  standing  with  his  back  to  them,  holding 
his  horses,  had  begun  to  whistle.  At  first  the 
sound  was  scarcely  to  be  heard  above  the  babel 
of  voices  in  the  lighted  room  — -  but  it  came  clearly 
to  Callista's  ears.  Flenton's  hand  reached  hers; 
Ellen  joined  her  entreaties  to  those  of  Little  Liza. 
Callista,  while  not  a  church  member,  had  always 
aligned  herself  with  the  ultra-religious  element; 
she  had  been  the  companion  and  peer  of  those 
eminently  fitted  and  ever  ready  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  the  unworthy.  Now  she  heard  all  these 
joining  to  condemn  Lance. 

The  tune  outside  went  seeking  softly  among 
the  turns  and  roulades  with  which  Lance  always 
embellished  a  melody.  It  was  the  song  he  had 
sung  under  her  window.  Her  heart  remembered 
the  words. 

"  How  many  years,  how  many  miles, 
Far  from  the  door  where  my  darling  smiles? 
How  many  miles,  how  many  years  .  .  .  ?  " 


The  Wedding  101 

His  musing  eyes  were  on  the  far  line  of  moun- 
tains, velvety  black  against  the  luminous  black- 
ness of  the  sky;  his  gaze  rested  thoughtfully  on  a 
great  star  that  hung  shining  in  the  dusk  over  the 
horizon's  edge.  He  seemed  deaf  to  the  clatter 
and  squabble,  blind  to  the  movement  in  the  room 
behind  him.  Softly  he  whistled,  like  a  man 
wandering  pensive  beside  a  lonely  sea,  or  in  some 
remote,  solitary  forest,  a  man  untouched  by  the 
more  immediate  and  human  things  of  life.  The 
two  horses  after  snorting  and  pulling  back  at 
first  sight  of  the  unaccustomed  lights  and  the 
noisy  voices,  put  down  their  noses  toward  the 
long,  lush  dooryard  grass. 

"He  ain't  lookin'  at  you.  He  ain't  a-carin'," 
Flenton  whispered  to  her. 

For  the  first  time  Callista  glanced  directly  to 
where  her  bridegroom  stood.  His  back  was  to 
her  —  yes,  his  back  was  to  her.  And  though 
the  little  whistle  went  questing  on  with  its  "  How 
many  miles  —  how  many  years?"  even  as  her  eye 
rested  on  him  he  made  a  leisurely  movement 
toward  one  of  the  horses,  like  a  man  who  might 
be  about  to  mount.  Swift  as  a  shadow  she  slipped 
through  the  hands  of  those  around  her  and  down 
the  steps. 

"Lance,"  she  breathed.  "Lance."  Then  she 
was  in  his  arms.  He  had  lifted  her  to  the 
saddle. 

"  Good  land !"  wailed  Octavia  Gentry,  "if  you've 


102  Lance  Cleaverage 

got  to  go,  Sis,  they's  no  use  ruinin'  yo'  frock. 
Here's  your  ridin'  skirt,"  and  she  flourished  the 
long  calico  garment  and  struggled  to  get  down  to 
the  mounted  pair. 

Lance  was  on  the  other  horse  now.  He  paid 
no  attention  to  any  of  them,  but  let  his  smiling 
gaze  rove  for  the  last  time  over  the  lighted  win- 
dows, the  noisy  people,  the  long  tables. 

"What  time  will  you-all  be  back?"  called  the 
still  secretly  chuckling  old  Ajax  from  the  door- 
way, as  he  saw  them  depart. 

"Never,"  answered  Lance's  clear  hail. 

"  Oh,  Lance  —  ain't  you  a-goin'  to  come  back 
and  have  the  weddin'?"  began  Octavia. 

At  this  the  bridegroom  turned  in  his  saddle, 
reining  in  thoughtfully.  He  would  not  accept 
this  mutilated  ceremony,  yet  the  wedding  of 
Lance  Cleaverage  should  not  be  shorn  in  the  eyes 
of  his  neighbors.  Slowly  he  wheeled  his  horse 
and  faced  them  all  once  more. 

"Callista  and  me  ain't  coming  back  here,"  he 
assured  them,  without  heat,  yet  with  decision. 
"  But  I  bid  you-all  to  an  infare  at  my  house  to- 
morrow night." 

Then  once  more  he  wheeled  his  pony,  caught  at 
Callista's  bridle,  and  sweeping  into  the  big  road, 
started  the  two  forward  at  a  gallop.  His  arm 
was  round  Callista's  waist.  Her  head  drooped  in 
the  relief  of  a  decision  arrived  at,  and  a  final 
abandonment  to  her  real  feeling  that  was  almost 


The  Wedding  103 

swoon-like,   on    the    conqueror's    shoulder.     The 
horses  sprang  forward  as  one. 

"Callista — sweetheart,"  he  whispered  with 
his  lips  against  her  hair,  "we  don't  want  nothin' 
of  them  folks  back  there,  do  we  ?  We  don't  want 
nothin'  of  anybody  in  the  world.  Just  you  and 
me  —  you  and  me." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

LANCE'S  LAUREL. 

THE  inheritance  of  Lance  Cleaverage  came  to 
him  from  his  maternal  grandfather.  Jesse 
Lance  had  felt  it  bitterly  when  his  handsome 
high-spirited  youngest  daughter  ran  away  with 
Kimbro  Cleaverage,  teacher  of  a  little  mountain 
school,  a  gentle,  unworldly  soul  who  would  never 
get  on  in  life.  His  small  namesake  was  four  years 
old  when  Grandfather  Lance,  himself  a  hawkfaced, 
up-headed  man,  undisputed  master  of  his  own 
household,  keen  on  the  hunting  trail,  and  ready 
as  ever  for  a  fight  or  a  frolic,  came  past  and 
stopped  at  the  Cleaverage  farm  on  the  way  from 
his  home  in  the  Far  Cove  neighborhood  down 
to  the  Settlement  to  buy  mules,  and,  incidentally, 
to  arrange  about  his  will.  He  was  not  advanced 
in  years,  and  he  was  in  excellent  health ;  but  there 
were  a  number  of  married  sons  and  daughters  to 
portion,  he  had  a  considerable  amount  of  property, 
and  his  wife  was  ailing.  It  had  been  suggested 
that  both  should  make  their  wills ;  so  the  docu- 
ments, duly  written  out,  signed  and  attested,  were 
being  carried  down  to  Jesse  Lance's  lawyer  in 
Hepzibah. 

104 


Lance's  Laurel  105 

He  had  seen  almost  nothing  of  his  one-time 
favorite,  Melissa,  since  the  marriage  twelve  years 
before  with  Cleaverage  that  so  disappointed  him; 
and  he  had  not  now  expected  to  remain  the  night 
in  her  house.  But  the  little  Lance,  a  small  splinter 
of  manhood,  at  once  caught  his  grandfather's  eye. 
The  child  stirred  Jesse  Lance's  curiosity  perhaps  — 
or  it  may  have  been  some  deeper  feeling.  The  first 
collision  between  these  two  occurred  as  the  visitor, 
having  dismounted,  approached  the  Cleaverage 
gate.  He  had  his  favorite  hound  with  him,  and 
four-year-old  Lance,  leading  forth  old  Speaker, 
his  chosen  comrade,  observed  the  hair  rise  on  the 
neck  of  grandfather's  follower,  and  listened  with 
delight  to  the  rumble  of  growls  the  dogs  exchanged. 

"Ye  better  look  out.  If  Speaker  jumps  on  yo' 
dog  he'll  thest  about  eat  him  up,"  the  child 
warned. 

The  tall  man  swept  his  grandson  with  a  domin- 
ating gaze  that  was  used  to  see  the  people  abdut 
Jesse  Lance  obey.  But  things  that  scared  other 
children  were  apt  to  evoke  little  Lance's  scornful 
laughter  or  stir  up  fight  in  him. 

"You  call  oft0  yo'  hound,"  the  newcomer  said 
imperiously.  "I  don't  let  my  dog  fight  with 
every  cur  he  meets." 

The  small  boy  wheeled  —  hands  in  trouser 
pockets  —  and  gazed  with  disappointed  eyes  to 
where  the  two  canines  were  making  friends. 

" I  wish  they  would  jump  on  each  other;  I  thest 


io6  Lance  Cleaverage 

wish't  they  would,"  he  muttered.  "I  know 
Speaker  could  whip." 

Grandfather  Lance  looked  with  interest  at  the 
child.  Such  a  boy  had  he  been.  This  was  the 
spirit  he  had  bequeathed  to  Lance's  mother,  and 
which  she  had  wasted  when  she  married  a  school- 
teacher. 

Melissa  Cleaverage,  come  down  in  the  world 
now,  paid  timid  court  to  her  father  without  much 
success;  but  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  her 
four-year-old  son  settled  the  question  of  the 
visitor  remaining  for  the  night.  Jesse  Lance  had 
been  across  the  gulch  to  look  at  some  wild  land 
which  belonged  to  him,  up  on  the  head  waters  of 
the  creek  called  Lance's  Laurel,  a  haggard,  noble 
domain,  its  lawless  acres  still  tossing  an  unbroken 
sea  of  green  tree-tops  towards  the  sky.  As  he 
returned  to  the  Cleaverage  place,  he  traversed 
a  little  woods-path  without  noticing  the  small 
jeans-clad  boy  who  dragged  a  number  of  linked 
objects  across  the  way. 

"You  gran'pap!"  came  the  shrill  challenge  after 
him.  "  You  quit  a-breakin'  up  my  train." 

Jesse  glanced  toward  the  ground  and  saw  a  great 
oak  chip  dangling  by  a  string  against  his  boot. 
He  turned  an  impassive  countenance,  and  thrust 
with  his  foot  to  free  it  from  its  entanglement. 

"Watch  out  —  you'll  break  it!"  cried  the  child, 
running  up.  Then,  as  a  second  jerk  shook  and 
rattled  the  dangling  bit  of  wood,  "  Ain't  you  got 


Lance's  Laurel  107 

no  sense?"  he  roared.  "That's  the  injine  to  my 
train  that  you  done  stepped  on  and  broke  all  up, 
and  it  cain't  go  a  lick  with  you,  big,  lazy  loafer, 
standin'  right  in  the  middle  of  it ! " 

For  a  moment  the  fierce  baby  eyes  looked  up 
into  eyes  as  fierce  above  them.  Such  a  glance 
should  have  sent  any  youngster  weeping  to  its 
mother's  skirts;  but  the  tiny  man  on  the  woods- 
path  stood  his  ground,  ruffling  like  a  game  cock. 

"Uh-huh!"  jeered  the  grandfather,  "and  who 
might  you  be,  young  feller?" 

"I'm  cap'n  of  this  train,"  Lance  flung  back  at 
him,  scarlet  of  face,  his  form  rigid,  his  feet  planted 
wide  on  the  mold  of  the  path. 

Grim  amusement  showed  itself  in  the  elder 
countenance.  Yet  Jesse  Lance  was  not  used  to 
permitting  himself  to  be  defied.  Not  since 
Melissa  had  run  rough-shod  over  him  and  held 
his  heart  in  her  little  grubby  hands,  had  another 
been  allowed  such  liberties. 

"Oh,  ye  air,  air  ye?  Well,  that's  mighty  big 
talk  for  little  breeches,"  he  taunted,  to  see  whether 
the  spirit  that  looked  out  at  him  from  his  grand- 
son's eyes  went  deep,  or  was  mere  surface  bravado. 

He  got  his  answer.  With  a  roar  the  baby 
charged  him,  gripped  the  big  man  around  the  knees 
and  swung. 

"Git  off'n  my  injine!"  he  bellowed,  contorting 
his  small  body  to  hammer  with  his  toes  the  offend- 
ing legs  he  clung  to.  "I  told  you  once  civil,  and 


io8  Lance  Cleaverage 

you  didn't  go.     I'm  cap'n  of  this  train,  and  I  can 
throw  rowdies  off  when  they  won't  go." 

The  lines  of  the  man's  face  puckered  curiously 
as  he  looked  down  at  the  small  assailant.  Without 
another  word  he  freed  his  foot  from  the  chip-and- 
string  " train,"  moving  circumspectly  and  with 
due  regard  to  flimsy  couplings.  Without  another 
word  he  stepped  slowly  on,  looking  across  his 
shoulder  once,  to  note  that  Lance  instantly  joined 
his  train  into  shape  and,  turning  his  back  on  his 
big  adversary,  promptly  forgot  all  about  him. 
Where  the  woods-path  struck  the  big  road,  the 
grandfather  stood  a  long  moment  and  studied 
his  grandson ;  then  he  made  his  way  to  the  house 
where  eleven  year-old  Roxy  sat  sorting  wild 
greens  on  the  porch  edge. 

"How  old  is  that  chap  back  thar?"  he  inquired 
of  her  brusquely. 

"  Brother  Lance  ?  W'y,  he  ain't  but  fo'  year 
old,"  Roxana  returned  sanctimoniously.  "Gran'- 
pap,  you  mustn't  hold  it  agin'  him  that  he's  so 
mean  —  he's  but  fo'  year  old.  An'  Poppy  won't 
never  whip  him  like  he  ort.  If  Poppy  would  jest 
give  him  a  good  dosin'  of  hickory  tea,  I  'low  he'd 
come  of  his  meanness  mighty  quick." 

Jesse  Lance  merely  grunted  in  reply  to  these 
pious  observations,  and  in  his  mind  there  framed 
itself  a  codicil  to  be  added  to  that  will.     Melissa  - 
Melissa  who  married  Kimbro    Cleaverage  —  had 
been  left  out  of  both  testaments  so  far;  but  she 


Lance's  Laurel  109 

was  his  favorite  child,  and  it  had  been  in  her 
father's  mind  to  bequeath  to  her  the  wild  land 
up  in  the  Gap.  Yet  of  what  use  would  such  a 
piece  of  timber  be  to  a  woman  ?  And  it  would  be 
of  less  account  to  a  man  like  Kimbro  Cleaverage. 
They  would  but  sell  it  for  the  meagre  price  some- 
one might  offer  their  necessities  now.  No,  the 
dauntless  captain  of  the  train  back  there  on  the 
path  was  the  one  to  own  the  Gap  hundred.  Such 
a  man  as  he  promised  to  become,  would  subdue 
that  bit  of  savage  nature,  and  live  with  and  upon 
it.  The  lawyer  in  Hepzibah  should  fix  the  will 
that  way. 

Susan  Lance  died  in  her  husband's  absence; 
and  the  pair  of  mules  Jesse  had  bought  in  the 
Settlement  ran  away  with  him  on  his  journey 
home,  pitching  themselves,  the  wagon  and  driver, 
all  over  a  cliff  and  breaking  his  neck.  So  it  was 
that  the  codicil  to  the  will  left  "to  my  namesake 
Lance  Cleaverage,  the  Gap  hundred  on  Lance's 
Laurel,"  not  then  of  as  much  value  as  it  had  now 
become.  High  on  the  side  of  the  slope  it  lay, 
as  befitted  the  heritage  of  a  free  hunter.  The 
timber  on  it  was  straight,  tall  and  clean,  mostly 
good  hardwood.  Here  was  the  head  of  Lance's 
Laurel,  a  bold  spring  of  pure  freestone  water 
bursting  out  from  under  a  bluff  —  a  naked  mass 
of  sandstone  which  fronted  the  sky  near  his  bound- 
ary-line —  in  sufficient  volume  to  form  with  its 
own  waters  the  upper  creek.  A  mile  down,  this 


no  Lance  Cleaverage 

stream  joined  itself  to  Burnt  Cabin  Laurel,  and 
the  two  formed  Big  Laurel.  This  water  supply, 
unusually  fine  even  in  that  well-watered  country, 
added  greatly  to  the  value  of  the  tract  as  a  home- 
stead. Coal  had  been  found  on  the  other  side  of 
the  ridge,  and  Lance,  who  believed  in  his  star, 
thought  it  reasonable  to  expect  that  coal  would 
be  discovered  on  his  own  land. 

Meantime,  though  he  had  cleared  none  of  it 
for  crops  —  not  even  the  necessary  truck-patch 
-  he  made  a  little  opening  on  a  fine,  sightly  rise, 
with  a  more  lofty  eminence  behind  it,  and  set  to 
work  building  his  cabin.  Scorning  the  boards 
from  the  portable  sawmill  which  would  have 
offered  him  a  flimsy  shanty  at  best,  hot  in  the  brief, 
vivid  summer  and  cold  in  winter,  he  marked  the 
best  timber  for  the  purpose,  and  planned  a  big, 
two-penned  log  house,  with  an  open  porch  between. 
Lance,  his  father  and  Sylvane,  spent  more  than 
ten  days  getting  out  the  trees.  It  took  forty 
boles  to  build  a  single  pen  ten  logs  high;  and  as 
Lance  had  decided  to  have  the  rooms  measure 
fourteen  feet  inside,  each  must  be  cut  to  fifteen 
foot  length.  Then,  since  he  was  fastidious  in 
the  matter  of  a  straight  wall,  Lance  himself 
measured  and  lined  each  one  and  scored  it  to 
line,  his  father  coming  behind  him  with  a  broad - 
axe  and  hewing  it  flat  on  the  two  sides,  leaving 
the  log  perhaps  about  five  inches  through,  what- 
ever its  height  might  be,  and  thus  securing  a  flat 


Lance's  Laurel  m 

wall  of  even  thickness.  For  the  kitchen  at  the 
back,  it  was  thought  good  enough  to  snake  the 
logs  up  in  the  round,  with  the  bark  all  on,  and 
merely  skelp  them  roughly  as  they  were  put  up 
one  by  one. 

It  took  only  a  day  to  raise  the  walls  of  the 
cabin  on  Lance's  Laurel,  for  the  owner  was  tre- 
mendously popular,  and  there  was  help  enough 
offered  in  friendly  country  fashion  that  day  to 
have  raised  another  pen,  had  the  logs  been  ready. 
Roxy  Griever  and  little  Polly  came  across  the  gulch 
with  dinner  for  the  men ;  but  the  best  things  the 
laughing  jovial  party  had,  Lance  cooked  for  them 
on  an  open  camp-fire. 

The  roof  was  of  hand -rived  clapboards  which 
Lance  and  Sylvane  got  out;  but  all  the  flooring 
was  of  tongued  and  grooved  boards,  brought  from 
the  Hepzibah  planing  mill,  narrow,  smooth,  well- 
fitted,  well-laid. 

There  were  not  in  all  the  Turkey  Track  neighbor- 
hoods such  door-  and  window-frames,  nor  doors  of 
such  quality,  all  hauled  up  from  the  planing  mill. 

When  it  came  to  the  chimney,  Lance  was  the 
master  hand,  a  mason  by  trade,  and  sent  for  far 
and  near  to  build  chimneys  or  doctor  one  which 
refused  to  draw.  He  had  chosen  the  stones  from 
the  creek-bed,  water-washed,  clean,  offering  tra- 
ceries of  white  here  and  there  on  their  steely,  blue- 
gray  surfaces.  He  debated  long  over  the  question 
of  a  rounded  arch  with  keystone  for  the  front  of 


Lance  Cleaverage 

his  fireplace,  as  is  the  manner  of  all  the  older 
chimneys  in  the  mountains;  but  finally  he  and 
Sylvane  found  one  day  a  single  straight  arch  rock 
so  long  that  it  could  be  laid  across  the  jambs,  and 
this  he  shaped  a  bit  and  hauled  up  for  the  purpose. 
The  day  he  set  in  the  chimney-throat  the  iron 
bar  from  which  to  hang  the  kettles,  Sylvane  lay 
watching  him. 

"Now,  that's  what  Sis'  Roxy's  been  a-wantin' 
ever  sence  I  can  remember,"  the  younger  brother 
commented,  as  Lance  manipulated  the  mortar  and 
set  stone  upon  stone  with  nice  skill. 

"Uh-huh,"  assented  the  proprieter  of  Lance's 
Laurel  lightly.  "She  wants  it  too  bad.  If  she'd 
just  want  it  easier,  maybe  she'd  get  it,  one  of 
these  days." 

He  laughed  drolly  down  at  the  boy  lying  on 
the  grass,  and  both  remembered  the  long  dreary 
tirades  by  which  poor  Roxy  had  tried  to  get  her 
brother  to  so  amend  the  home  hearth  that  cooking 
should  be  rendered  less  laborious  for  her. 

And  it  was  to  this  home  that  Lance  Cleaverage 
brought  his  bride.  Here  it  was  that  he  hoped  to 
build  that  true  abiding  place  which  such  spirits 
as  Lance  seek,  and  crave,  and  seldom  find.  The 
hearthstone  he  had  himself  laid,  the  skilfully  built 
chimney,  with  its  dream  of  Callista  sitting  on  one 
side  of  the  hearth  and  himself  on  the  other  - 
these  were  gropings  after  the  answers  such  as  he 
always  asked  of  life. 


Lance's  Laurel  113 

"  This  ain't  what  Pap  calls  a  sojourning  place  — 
this  here's  going  to  be  a  real  home,  Callista,"  he 
said  eagerly,  as  the  two  young  creatures  went 
about  it  examining  their  new  habitation  the  next 
morning.  "  It'll  be  cool  in  the  summer,  and  good 
and  warm  in  the  winter.  That  chimney'll  draw  - 
just  look  at  the  fire.  I  never  have  built  a  chimney 
that  smoked." 

"Did  you  build  the  chimney,  Lance?"  Callista 
asked  him,  leaning  on  his  arm. 

"I  did  that,"  he  told  her.  "They're  always 
after  me  to  build  other  folks'  chimneys  and  lay 
other  people's  hearthstones,  and  I  ain't  so  very 
keen  to  do  it  —  and  it  don't  pay  much  —  up  here. 
But  my  own  —  one  for  you  and  me  to  sit  by  — " 

He  broke  off  and  stared  down  at  her,  his  eyes 
suddenly  full  of  dreams.  Oh,  the  long  winter 
evenings;  they  two  together  beside  the  leaping 
hearth-fire.  They  would  be  as  one.  Surely  into 
this  citadel  he  had  builded  for  his  life,  the  enemy 
—  the  olden  lonesomeness  —  could  never  come. 

They  had  their  bit  of  breakfast,  and  Lance  was 
about  to  go  down  to  the  Settlement  to  purchase 
the  wherewithal  for  the  impromptu  infare.  It 
was  hard  to  leave  her.  He  went  out  and  fed  the 
black  horses  and  came  back  to  say  good-bye  once 
more.  His  team  was  his  hope  of  a  subsistence, 
seeing  that  there  was  no  cleared  land  to  farm. 
He  and  they  together  could  earn  a  living  for  two 
or  three  months  yet.  After  that,  there  would 


ii4  Lance  Cleaverage 

be  small  opportunity  throughout  the  winter  for 
teaming.  Through  the  summer  he  had  been 
hauling  tan-bark  on  the  contract  for  old  man  Derf . 
Nearly  all  of  this  money  he  had  spent  upon  the 
house ;  and  he  felt  he  had  now  to  draw  upon  what 
remained  —  though  it  was  not  yet  quite  due  - 
for  the  expenses  of  the  infare.  Callista  was  down 
at  the  hearth  as  he  entered,  the  tiny  blaze  in  its 
center  warming  the  whiteness  of  her  throat  and 
chin  where  she  bent  to  hang  a  pot  on  the  bar  his 
skill  and  forethought  had  placed  there  for  her. 
Something  mighty  and  primal  and  terribly  sweet 
shook  the  soul  of  Lance  Cleaverage  as  he  looked  at 
her  kneeling  there.  She  was  his  —  his  mate.  He 
would  never  be  alone  again.  He  ran  to  her  and 
dropped  his  arm  about  her.  She  turned  up  to 
him  that  flushing,  tender,  responsive  countenance 
which  was  new  to  both  of  them. 

"Hadn't  I  better  buy  you  a  pair  of  slippers?" 
he  asked  her,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  having  her 
answer. 

"I  reckon  I  don't  need  'em,  Lance,"  she  said 
soberly,  getting  to  her  feet  and  moving  with  him 
toward  the  door.  "  If  I  could  dance  —  or  if  I  ever 
did  dance  —  I  might  have  need  of  such." 

"Dance!"  echoed  her  husband  with  quick  ten- 
derness, looking  down  at  her  as  they  paused  on  the 
doorstone.  "  If  you  was  to  dance,  Callista,  there 
wouldn't  any  of  the  other  gals  want  to  stand  up  on 
the  floor  beside  you.  I'm  goin'  to  get  the  slippers." 


Lance's  Laurel  115 

He  rode  away  on  his  black  horse,  her  fond  eyes 
following  him;  and  the  sight  of  her  standing  in 
the  door  waving  her  hand  was  his  last  vision  of 
home. 

At  the  gate,  far  down  the  slope,  he  stopped  for 
some  imaginary  investigation  of  his  accoutrements, 
but  really  to  have  an  excuse  to  turn  and  wave  to 
Callista,  cupping  his  hands  and  calling  back, 
"I'm  going  to  bring  you  the  finest  pair  of  slip- 
pers I  can  buy." 

For  in  his  pocket  was  one  of  her  shoes,  and  in 
his  mind  the  firm  intention  of  getting  so  light 
and  flexible  a  pair  of  slippers  that  his  girl  should 
be  coaxed  into  learning  to  dance.  Callista 
not  dance  —  it  was  unthinkable !  Of  course  she 
would  dance.  Vaguely  his  mind  formed  the 
picture  of  her  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  music. 
His  eyes  half  closed,  he  let  black  Satan  choose 
his  own  gait,  as  his  arms  felt  somehow  the  light 
pressure  of  her  form  within  them,  and  he  was 
dancing  with  Callista.  On  —  on  —  on  through 
the  years  with  Callista.  She  should  not  grow  old 
and  faded  and  workworn,  nor  he  hardened,  com- 
monplace, indifferent.  There  should  be  love  and 
tenderness  —  beauty  and  music  and  movement 
—  in  their  lives.  And  she  should  dance  for  him 
-  with  him  —  Callista,  who  had  never  yet  danced 
with  anyone. 

Early  morning  shadows  lay  cool  across  the  road  ; 
ground-squirrels  frisked  among  the  boulders  by 


n6  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  way.  The  far  mountains  were  of  a  wonderful 
morning  color,  not  blue,  but  a  blend  of  the  tint  of 
the  golden  sun-warmed  slopes  with  that  of  the  air ; 
a  color  of  dream,  of  high  romance  —  a  color  of 
ideals. 

At  one  time  he  was  roused  from  his  thoughts 
by  a  bee-like  drone  of  voices,  accompanied  by 
jangling  cowbells.  Around  the  turn  ahead  of  him 
came  a  herd  of  spotted  yearlings,  their  shaggy 
hides  clustered  with  the  valley's  wayside  burrs. 
They  took  the  road,  crowding  stupidly  against  his 
horse,  and  shuffled  by;  then  followed  two  riders, 
driving  the  bunch  to  mountain  pastures  to  find 
their  own  living  until  winter  should  set  in  —  an 
old  man  in  a  faded  hat  and  shawl,  gaunt,  humped 
over  his  saddle-bow;  and  his  son  beside  him  on  a 
better  horse,  but  colorless  of  feature  as  himself. 

"Howdy,"  said  Lance,  smiling,  and  they  an- 
swered him,  "Howdy." 

But  he  was  moved  to  a  new  pity  for  these  men, 
whom  he  did  not  know,  and  for  all  their  kind  who 
are  born  and  live,  God  knew  why,  without  the 
eagle  power  of  soaring  into  blue  gulfs  of  dream. 
He  rode  with  his  head  high,  eye  bright,  his  cheek 
glowing,  his  whole  body  tingling  in  the  exquisite 
flow  of  the  frost-sweetened  morning  air  upon  it. 
The  horse,  too,  felt  the  touch  of  last  night's  frost, 
and  fretted  against  the  bit  until  Lance,  with  a 
shout,  let  him  go.  Then  the  road  underfoot 
rushed  past  with  the  wind  as  the  two  splendid, 


Lance's  Laurel  n? 

exultant  creatures  flew  over  it,  for  the  moment 
so  far  in  sympathy  that  they  seemed  one.  They 
found  themselves  reluctantly  slowing  down  at  the 
front  fence  of  the  Derf  place.  The  pack  of  hounds 
burst  from  under  the  porch,  and  ran  baying  out 
to  meet  Lance.  Iley  Derf's  Indian  husband 
crouched  at  the  corner  of  the  cabin  picking  up 
something,  and  moved  noiselessly  away  with  an 
armful  of  wood.  The  clamor  of  the  hounds  brought 
Derf  himself  out,  and  Lance  had  a  glimpse  of  women 
moving  about  at  household  work  in  the  cabin. 

"Light  —  light  and  come  in,"  Garrett  Derf 
greeted  him.  "  I  hear  you  and  old  Jeff  Drumright 
had  it  up  an'  down  last  night,  and  that  you  beat 
the  old  hypocrite  out." 

"Much  obliged,  I  ain't  got  time  to  get  down," 
Lance  answered,  ignoring  the  rest  of  Derf's  speech. 
"I  just  stopped  as  I  was  passing  to  get  some 
money." 

Derf's  eyes  narrowed  to  slits.  He  lounged 
forward,  bent  and  secured  a  bit  of  wood  from  the 
chip  pile  and  commenced  to  whittle.  Such  rapid 
and  abrupt  negotiations  are  quite  foreign  to 
mountain  business  ethics,  where  it  takes  a  half  a 
day  to  collect  a  day's  wages. 

"Want  some  money,"  Derf  repeated  contem- 
platively. "You  mean  that  thar  money  for  the 
haulin',  I  reckon." 

"Yes,"  returned  Lance  impatiently,  "I  couldn't 
very  well  mean  any  other." 


n8  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Well,  Lance,  you  shorely  ain't  forgettin'  that 
that  thar  money  ain't  due  till  next  month,"  Derf 
said,  setting  a  foot  on  the  chopping  block  and 
proceeding  to  pick  his  teeth  with  the  toothpick 
he  had  shaped.  "The  haulin'  ain't  all  done  yet." 

"No,  I  ain't  forgot  that;  but  I  knew  you  had 
money  by  you,  and  I  didn't  reckon  you'd  object 
to  paying  some  of  it  ahead  of  time. " 

Cleaverage  forced  himself  to  speak  civilly, 
though  his  temper  was  rising.  Derf  chuckled. 

"Now  see  here,"  he  shifted  the  raised  foot,  and 
set  forth  evidently  on  a  long  argument.  "Thar 
ain't  no  man  livin'  that  likes  to  pay  money  afore 
hit's  due.  Ef  I've  got  the  cash  by  me,  that's  my 
good  fortune.  Ef  you  want  payment  ahead  of 
time,  it's  worth  somethin'.  What  do  you  aim  to 
take  for  the  debt  as  it  stands,  me  to  pay  you  to- 
day? Of  course  I'm  good  for  it;  but  this  here 
business  is  the  same  as  discountin'  a  note,  and 
that  calls  for  money.  What'll  you  take,  Lance?" 

"Whatever  you'll  give  me,  I  reckon,"  Lance 
came  back  quickly,  with  light  scorn.  "Looks 
like  you've  got  it  your  own  way.  What  are  you 
offering?" 

"Oh,  I  ain't  offerin'  nothin',"  Derf  receded 
from  his  proposition.  A  shrewd  enjoyment  was 
evident  beneath  the  surface  stupidity  and  reluc- 
tance. "  It's  you  that  wants  the  money.  Looks 
like  you  must  want  it  pretty  bad. " 

Nothing  but  the  fact  that  he  conceived  it  nee- 


Lance's  Laurel  119 

essary  to  have  the  funds,  kept  Lance  from  break- 
ing out  wrathfully  and  leaving  his  tormentor. 

"  See  here,  Garrett  Derf, "  he  said  at  last,  divided 
between  scorn  and  angry  dignity,  "I  made  you 
one  offer  —  and  I'd  think  the  meanest  man  would 
call  it  good  enough  —  I'll  take  what  money  you 
choose  to  give  me.  Now  you  can  say  the  rest." 

"See  here,  Lance,"  echoed  Derf,  grinning,  and 
glancing  toward  the  cabin,  "  you  ort  not  to  trade 
so  careless  these  days  and  times.  Yo're  a  married 
man  now;  you've  got  to  look  out  for  yo'  spare 
cash,  or  yo'  ol'  woman'll  be  in  yo'  hair.  What 
you  needin'  all  this  here  money  for,  anyway?" 

The  day  before,  Derf  durst  not  for  his  life  inquire 
so  closely  into  Lance  Cleaverage's  affairs.  Now 
he  felt  that  he  held  the  boy  in  a  cleft  stick.  Some- 
thing of  this  Lance  understood;  also,  the  allusion 
to  Callista's  right  to  vise  his  bargains  stung  him 
beyond  reason.  No  doubt  he  knew  at  bottom 
that  what  he  was  now  engaged  on  was  unfair  to 
her. 

"  If  you're  going  to  pay,  you'd  better  be  about 
it, "  he  said  to  Derf.  "  I've  got  some  buying  to  do 
when  I  get  my  money,  and  Frazee's  store  is  a  right 
smart  ways  from  here." 

Derf  came  through  the  fence  and  laid  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  Satan's  mane,  getting  nipped  at  for 
his  pains. 

"  You  ain't  got  the  time  to  go  down  to  the  store 
and  buy,  and  git  back  home  by  night,  "  he  argued. 


120  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Better  trade  with  me,  Lance.  I  brung  up  a 
wagon  load  of  goods  last  time  I  was  down.  I  aim 
to  put  in  shelving  and  set  up  regular  next 
month. " 

A  quick  change  went  over  Lance's  face. 

"  Have  you  got  any  women's  slippers  —  that 
size?"  the  bridegroom  asked  eagerly,  drawing 
Callista's  shoe  from  his  pocket. 

Derf  took  the  shoe  in  his  hand  and  fingered  it, 
bending  so  his  countenance  was  concealed .  Lance 
became  aware  of  a  heaving  of  the  man's  shoulders, 
a  gurgling,  choking  sound  that  at  length  resolved 
itself  into  a  fierily  offensive  chuckle. 

"Buyin'  shoes  for  her  the  fust  day!"  snickered 
Garrett  Derf. 

The  young  fellow  bent  from  his  saddle  and 
swooped  the  bit  of  foot-gear  out  of  the  other's 
fingers  —  it  looked  so  much  as  though  he  would 
clout  Garrett  Derf  on  the  side  of  the  head  with  it 
that  the  latter  dodged  hastily. 

"Are  you  going  to  trade,  or  are  you  not?"  he 
asked  with  blazing  eyes.  "I  got  something  else 
to  do  besides  stand  here  talking." 

"I'll  give  you  half,"  bantered  Derf,  still  hold- 
ing discreetly  out  of  range,  but  wiping  the  tears 
of  delicious  mirth  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"I'll  take  it,"  returned  Lance  sharply,  thrust- 
ing forth  his  hand.  "Have  you  got  it  with 
you?" 

The  chance  was  too  good  to  lose.     Derf  in- 


Lance's  Laurel  121 

stantly  ceased  chuckling,  reached  down  in  a 
capacious  pocket  and  hauled  up  a  great  wallet, 
out  of  which  he  began  to  count  the  money,  look- 
ing up  furtively  every  moment  to  see  if  Lance 
had  been  only  jesting,  or  if  his  temper  and  that 
reckless  spirit  of  his  were  sufficiently  roused  to 
carry  through  the  outrageous  trade.  But  when 
the  few  bills  and  the  bit  of  silver  were  ready, 
Lance  took  them,  put  them  carelessly  into  his 
pocket  without  the  usual  careful  fingering  and 
counting,  and  wheeled  Satan  toward  the  road. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  tell  a  body  'howdy'  ?"  came 
a  treble  hail  from  the  cabin  as  he  did  so,  and  Ola 
Derf's  small  face,  still  disfigured  from  her  tears 
of  last  night,  presented  itself  at  the  doorway. 
"  Lance,  wait  a  minute  —  I  want  to  speak  with 
you,"  the  girl  called;  and  then  she  came  running 
down  to  the  fence  and  out  into  the  road.  "Was 
you  and  Pap  a-fussin'  ?  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  be  mad 
with  us  becaze  Callista  and  her  folks  never  was 
friendly  with  us,  air  ye?"  she  inquired  doubtfully, 
looking  up  at  him  with  drowned  eyes. 

Pity  stirred  Lance's  heart.  Poor  little  thing, 
she  had  always  been  a  friendly  soul,  since  the  two 
were  tow-headed  tykes  of  six  playing  hookey 
together  from  the  bit  of  summer  school,  as  devoted 
as  a  dog,  observant  of  his  mood  and  careful  of 
all  his  preferences.  It  was  rare  for  her  to  thrust 
upon  him  her  own  distress,  or  to  let  him  see 
her  other  than  cheerful,  eagerly  willing  to  for- 


122  Lance  Cleaverage 

ward  his  plans.  And  he  remembered  with  resent- 
ment that  both  at  his  own  home  and  Callista's 
after  some  heated  discussion  of  his  proposition 
to  invite  the  Derfs,  he  had  said  they  could  have 
it  their  own  way,  and  no  invitation  had  been 
given. 

"  Well,  you  and  me  ain't  going  to  fuss,  anyhow, 
are  we,  Ola  ? "  he  said  heartily.  "  I  bid  you  to  the 
infare  at  my  house  to-night.  I  was  just  gettin' 
the  money  from  your  father  to  buy  some  things 
that  Callista'll  need  for  it." 

Square,  stubbed,  the  little  brown  girl  stood  at 
the  roadside  shading  her  gaze  with  one  small, 
rough  hand,  looking  up  at  the  mounted  man  with 
open,  unchanged  adoration.  Her  eyes  —  the 
eyes  of  an  ignorant  little  half  savage  —  enlightened 
by  love,  valued  accurately  the  perfect  carriage 
of  his  shapely  head  on  the  brown  throat,  the 
long,  tapering  line  from  waist  to  toe,  as  he  sat  at 
ease  in  the  saddle.  Who  of  them  all  was  the 
least  bit  like  Lance,  her  man  of  men,  with  his 
quizzical  smile,  his  blithe,  easy  mastery  of  any 
situation  ? 

"Hit's  too  late  now  for  you  to  go  away  down 
yon  to  the  store,  ain't  it,  Lance?"  the  girl  asked 
him  timidly.  "Don't  you  want  to  come  in  and 
see  the  new  things  Pappy  brung  up  from  the 
Settlement?  I  believe  in  my  soul  he's  got  the 
prettiest  dancin'  shoes  I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on  - 
but  Callista  don't  dance,"  she  amended. 


Lance's  Laurel  123 

Lance  sighted  at  the  sun.  He  was  entirely  too 
late  for  a  trip  to  Hepzibah  —  he  knew  that.  The 
shoe  in  his  pocket  nudged  him  in  the  side  and 
suggested  that  this  was  the  place  for  buying 
Callista's  slippers.  Without  more  ado  he  sprang 
from  Satan's  back,  flung  the  reins  over  a  fence 
post,  and  followed  Ola  into  the  big  shed  where 
the  goods  for  the  new  store  were  piled  hetero- 
geneously  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    INFARE. 

WHEN  Callista's  gaze  could  no  longer  distin- 
guish Lance  on  Satan,  when  the  thick  woods 
had  swallowed  up  his  moving  figure  at  last,  she 
turned  to  make  ready  the  house  for  the  evening. 
He  had  lived  in  the  place,  off  and  on,  for  several 
weeks,  during  the  long  period  of  finishing  up 
work.  Every  evidence  of  his  occupancy  showed 
him  a  clever,  neat-handed  creature.  Callista  was 
continually  finding  proof  of  his  daintiness  and 
tidiness.  She  admired  the  bits  of  extra  shelving — 
a  little  cupboard  here  or  there  —  a  tiny  table 
that  let  down  from  the  wall  by  means  of  a  leathern 
hinge,  to  rest  on  its  one  stout  leg  —  all  sorts  of 
receptacles  contrived  from  most  unlikely  material. 
Throughout  the  forenoon,  the  girl  worked,  using 
the  implements  and  utensils  that  his  hands  had 
made  ready  for  her,  drawing  upon  the  store  of 
girlish  possessions  which  had  come  over  in  her 
trunk  the  day  before,  for  wherewithal  to  grace 
and  beautify  the  place  for  the  evening's  festivities. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  Lance  himself  came 
riding  slowly  in.  She  had  not  expected  him 
much  before  dark,  and  she  ran  to  meet  him  with 
eager  welcome.  She  watched  him  while  he 

124 


The  Infare  125 

unsaddled  and  fed  his  horse,  and  then  the  two 
went  gaily  into  their  new  home,  their  arms  fu^l  of 
the  carefully  wrapped  purchases  he  had  bought. 
The  pretty  slippers  were  got  out,  displayed  and 
tried  on ;  the  curtains  for  the  front  windows  were 
spread  forth,  and  the  bright  table  cover  for  the 
little  stand ;  the  lamp  with  its  wonderful  gay  shade 
was  cautiously  unpacked  and  set  up,  the  silver- 
plated  spoons  counted,  almost  awesomely.  Lance 
had  had  no  dinner,  and  Callista  had  been  so  en- 
grossed in  her  work  about  the  cabin  that  she  had 
cooked  none  for  herself,  stopping  only  to  snatch  a 
bite  of  the  cold  food  left  from  breakfast.  So  now 
when  all  had  been  gone  over  again  and  again, 
admired  and  delighted  in,  he  put  her  in  a  chair  and 
peremptorily  bade  her,  "rest  right  there  whilst  I 
make  you  some  coffee  and  cook  some  dinner  for 
the  both  of  us." 

Lance  cooked  just  as  he  played  the  banjo,  or 
danced,  or  hunted  possums.  Callista  watched 
him  with  joy  in  the  sure  lightness  of  his  move- 
ments, the  satisfactoriness  and  precision  of  his 
results. 

It  was  after  three  o'clock,  and  they  were  just 
finishing  their  coffee  and  cornbread,  when  little 
Polly  Griever  came  running  in  at  the  door  and 
announced, 

"Cousin  Lance,  A'  Roxy  says  tell  you  ef  they's 
a-goin'  to  be  dancin'  here  to-night,  ne'er  a  one  of 
us  shain't  step  foot  in  the  house." 


126  Lance  Cleaverage 

"You  go  tell  yo'  Aunt  Roxy  that  they's  sure 
goin'  to  be  dancin'  in  my  place  this  night,"  Lance 
instructed  her,  throwing  his  head  back  to  laugh. 
"  Say  Polly,  you  tell  her  I  aim  to  have  her  do  the 
callin'  off  —  you  hear?  Don't  you  forget,  now. 
Tell  her  I'm  dependin'  on  her  to  do  the  callin' 
off,  and—" 

"Now,  Lance!"  remonstrated  Callista.  Her 
face  relaxed  into  lines  of  amusement  in  spite  of 
herself.  Yet  she  resolutely  assumed  a  wifely  air 
of  reproof  that  Lance  found  irresistible.  "You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourse'f.  If  you  ain't, 
why,  I'm  ashamed  for  you.  Polly,  you  go  tell 
Miz.  Griever  that  they  won't  be  a  thing  in  the 
world  here  in  my  house  that  she'd  object  to." 

"Huh!  yo'  house!"  interpolated  Lance,  and  he 
made  as  though  he  would  have  kissed  her  right 
before  Polly,  whereat  her  color  flamed  beautifully 
and  she  hastily  moved  back  a  bit,  in  alarm. 

"  You  tell  yo'  Aunt  Roxy,  please  come  on,  Polly, 
and  to  come  early,"  she  continued  with  native 
tact.  "Tell  her  I'll  expect  her  to  help  me  out. 
Why,  I  don't  know  how  I'd  get  along  without 
Sis'  Roxy  and  Pappy  Cleaverage  and  Brother 
Sylvane." 

Polly  stood  near  the  door,  like  a  little  hardy 
woods-creature,  and  rolled  her  gaze  slowly  about 
the  interior,  noting  all  the  preparations  that  were 
on  foot.  She  observed  Lance  shove  back  a  little 
from  the  table  and  reach  for  his  banjo.  While 


The  Infare  127 

Callista  lingered  over  her  cup  of  coffee,  Polly  saw, 
with  the  tail  pf  her  eye,  that  Lance  drew  a  little 
parcel  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  put  a  new 
string  on  the  instrument.  That  settled  it;  he 
had  spoken  the  truth :  he  was  going  to  have  danc- 
ing there  that  night.  The  thin-shanked  wiry 
little  thing  watched  him  continually  till  she  caught 
his  eye.  Then  with  the  freemasonry  there  always 
was  between  Lance  and  youngsters,  she  raised 
her  brows  in  an  interrogatory  grimace  while  Cal- 
lista's  eyes  were  in  her  cup.  Lance  grinned  and 
nodded  his  head  vigorously.  Still  Polly  looked 
doubtful.  Lance  moved  his  foot  wickedly  to 
emphasize  his  meaning.  Polly  was  convinced. 
There  would  be  no  legitimate  coming  to  the 
infare  —  not  if  she  took  that  word  home  to  Aunt 
Roxy. 

But  instead  of  turning  to  leave  with  her  mes- 
sage, Polly  slowly  edged  into  the  room.  Presently 
Lance  and  Callista  together  cleared  the  table, 
making  play  of  it  like  a  pair  of  children.  To- 
gether they  set  out  the  provisions  that  Lance  had 
brought,  and  began  to  prepare  the  supper  for  the 
infare.  And  all  the  time  Polly's  eyes  were  upon 
the  good  things  to  eat,  the  marvelous  lamp  with 
its  gay  shade,  the  new  curtains  which  they  tacked 
up  at  the  windows,  all  the  wonders  and  delights 
that  were  to  be  exploited  that  evening.  She 
had  enjoyed  herself  hugely  at  the  wedding,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  bridegroom,  whom  she 


128  Lance  Cleaverage 

especially  delighted  in  and  admired,  left  in  so 
unceremonious  and  theatric  a  manner  early  in  the 
evening.  If  a  wedding  without  Lance  was  like 
that,  what  would  the  infare  be  in  Lance's  own 
house  ?  She  grappled  with  the  problem  of  how  to 
escape  Aunt  Roxy  and  get  to  this  festivity.  She 
could  only  think  of  one  possible  method  —  that 
was  to  stay  at  Lance's  now  she  was  there.  She 
looked  down  covertly  at  her  old  homespun 
dress,  soiled  and  torn,  her  whole  person  unkempt 
and  untidy.  Well  —  she  gulped  a  bit  —  better 
this  than  nothing  at  all.  She  would  rather 
appear  thus  among  the  guests  of  the  infare  than 
not  to  be  able  to  appear  in  any  guise ;  but  when 
she  considered  her  bare  feet,  she  gave  up  in 
despair.  If  she  only  had  her  shoes  and  stockings 
out  of  Aunt  Roxy's  house,  the  joys  of  the  infare 
were  as  good  as  hers  —  let  come  after  what 
must. 

Gaily  Lance  and  Callista  went  forward  with 
their  preparations.  To  their  minds,  they  were 
the  first  who  had  ever  felt  that  pristine  rapture 
of  anticipation  when  two  make  ready  a  home. 
Dear  children!  Did  not  Adam,  when  Eve  called 
him  to  help  her  with  fresh  roses  for  the  bower 
she  was  decking,  know  the  same?  It  is  as  old 
as  Paradise,  that  joy,  and  as  legitimate  an 
asset  of  happiness  to  humanity  as  any  left  us. 
Suddenly,  upon  the  quiet  murmur  of  their  talk, 
came  the  sharp  slam  of  the  door,  and  they  heard 


The  Infarc  129 

little    Polly's   bare   feet   go    spatting   down   the 
trail. 

"Well,  hit's  time  she  left,"  commented  Callista 
gently,  "if  she's  goin'  to  take  word  to  Sister 
Roxy." 

But  Polly  had  been  stricken  with  an  inspiration. 
Down  the  steep  cut-off  which  crossed  the  ravine 
with  Lance's  Laurel  brawling  in  its  depth,  and 
led  to  the  Cleaverage  place,  she  ran  full  pelt.  It 
was  two  miles  by  the  wagon  road  around  the  bend ; 
but  it  was  little  over  a  mile  down  across  the  gulch, 
and  Polly  made  quick  work  of  the  descent, 
scarcely  slacking  on  the  steep  climb  up  again. 
She  galloped  like  a  frightened  filly  over  that  bit 
of  path  on  which  the  original  owner  of  the  Gap 
hundred  had  met  young  Lance  with  his  chip 
train  nineteen  years  ago,  and  burst  headlong  in 
upon  Roxy  Griever. 

"A'  Roxy!"  she  gasped,  "Callisty's  a-goin' 
to  have  preachers  at  the  infare  —  an'  —  an'  — 
she  wants  yo'  gospel  quilt.  Pleas'm  git  it  for  me 
quick  — -  Callisty's  in  a  bi-i-g  hurry. " 

Polly's  instinct  carried  true;  and  the  Widow 
Griever  was  borne  by  the  mere  wind  of  her  ficti- 
tious haste.  Before  she  had  stopped  to  consider, 
Roxy  found  herself  taking  the  gospel  quilt  out  of 
the  chest  where  it  was  kept.  Back  in  the  room 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  little  Polly  dived  under 
the  bed  and  secured  her  shoes,  a  convenient 
stocking  thrust  in  the  throat  of  each.  With 


i3°  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  swiftness  and  deftness  of  a  squirrel  or  a  possum, 
she  concealed  these  in  her  scanty  skirts  and  stood 
apparently  waiting  when  the  widow  returned, 
bundle  in  hand.  But  now  Roxy  Griever's  slow 
wits  had  begun  to  stir. 

"What  preachers  is  a-comin'?"  she  inquired 
sharply.  "  Brother  Drumright,  he's  out  preachin' 
on  the  White  Oak  Circuit  —  an'  he  wouldn't  be 
thar  nohow  —  a  body  knows  in  reason.  Young 
Shalliday,  he  —  What  preachers  did  Callisty  say 
was  a-comin'?" 

"I  never  hearn  rightly  jest  what  ones,"  stam- 
mered Polly,  making  a  grab  for  the  quilt  and 
missing  it.  "But  thar's  more'n  a  dozen  comin'," 
she  gulped,  as  she  saw  her  aunt's  face  darken  with 
incredulity. 

"You  Polly  Griever, "  began  the  widow  sternly, 
"you  know  mighty  well-an'-good  thar  ain't  no 
twelve  preachers  in  this  whole  deestrick.  I'll 
vow,  I  cain't  think  of  a  single  one  this  side  of 
Hepzibah.  I  believe  you're  a-lyin'  to  me. 
Preachers  at  Lance  Cleaverage 's  house,  and  him 
apt  to  break  out  and  dance  anytime!  What 
did  he  say  —  you  ain't  never  told  me  that 
yit  —  what  did  Lance  say  'bout  the  dancin'  any- 
how?" 

Keen-visaged,  alert  Polly  had  possessed  herself 
of  the  precious  bundle,  and  now  she  hopped  dis- 
creetly backward,  shaking  the  ragged  mane  out 
of  her  eyes  like  a  wild  colt. 


The  Infare  131 

"W'y,  Lance,  he  says  he's  a-goin'  to  have 
dancin',  and  a  plenty  of  it,"  she  announced  with 
impish  gusto  —  there  would  never  be  any  hanging 
for  a  lamb  with  Polly ;  she  was  somewhat  of  Lance's 
kidney.  She  backed  a  pace  or  two  outside  the 
door,  stepping  as  warily  as  a  wildcat  might,  before 
she  concluded,  "An'  he  'lowed  to  have  you  do 
the  callin'  off,  A'  Roxy!  He  said  be  shore  an' 
come  —  that  he  was  a-dependin'  on  you  to  call 
off  for  'em  to  dance!" 

The  Widow  Griever  made  a  dive  for  the  bundle 
gripped  in  Polly's  stringy  little  arm.  But  the  girl, 
far  too  quick  for  her,  backed  half  way  to  the  gate. 
She  must  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

"Well,  you  can  take  that  thar  quilt  over  to 
Callisty, "  she  harangued.  "I  won't  deny  it  to 
her,  and  I  hope  it  may  do  good.  If  tham  men  is 
a-goin'  to  git  up  a  dance,  you  tell  her  she  need'nt 
expect  to  see  me  ndr  mine ;  but  the  quilt  I'll  send. 
You  give  it  to  her,  and  come  right  straight  back 
to  this  house.  You  hear  me,  you  Polly  Griever? 
—  straight  back!" 

The  last  adjuration  was  shouted  after  Polly's 
thudding  bare  feet  as  they  went  flying  once  more 
down  the  short  cut  into  the  gulch. 

"Yes'm, "  came  back  the  faint  hail.  "I  will, 
A'  Roxy." 

Deep  in  the  hollow  where  the  waters  of  Laurel 
gurgled  about  the  roots  of  the  black  twisted  bushes 
that  gave  it  its  name,  where  ordinarily  a  body 


i32  Lance  Cleaverage 

would  be  fearfully  afraid  at  such  a  time  —  blind 
man's  holiday,  and  neither  dark  nor  light  in  the 
open,  while  here  the  shadows  lay  like  pools  of  ink- 
Polly  Griever  sat  herself  down  in  great  content 
to  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings.  She  was 
puffing  a  little,  but  the  success  of  her  enterprise 
had  so  fired  her  that  all  thoughts  of  ha'nts  and 
such-like  were  banished.  She  hauled  up  the 
home-knit  hose  over  her  slim  shanks  and  knobby 
knees,  girding  them  in  place  with  a  gingham 
string,  and  hastily  laced  on  her  cowhide  shoes. 
Being  then  in  full  evening  dress,  she  made  a  more 
leisurely  way  up  the  steep  to  Lance's  cabin,  pre- 
pared to  take  in  and  enjoy  all  the  festivities  of  the 
occasion. 

She  found  the  house  alight  and  humming. 
Octavia  Gentry  and  old  Ajax  had  arrived,  and 
the  latter  was  throned  in  state  as  usual  by  the 
chimney-side  —  the  evening  was  cool  for  Septem- 
ber, and  the  flickering  blaze  that  danced  up  the 
broad  throat  was  welcome  for  its  heat  as  well  as 
for  light.  The  mother-in-law  was  everywhere, 
looking  at  the  contrivances  for  housekeeping,  full 
of  fond  pride  in  what  she  saw,  anxious  to  con- 
vince the  young  people  that  she  did  not  resent 
their  unceremonious  behavior  of  the  night  before. 
She  pinched  the  new  window  curtains  between 
her  fingers,  and  advised  Callista  to  pin  newspapers 
behind  them  in  ordinary  times  lest  the  sun  fade 
their  colors.  She  helped  at  the  lighting  of  the 


The  Infare  133 

new  lamp,  and  finally  settled  down  in  the  kitchen 
among  the  supper  preparations. 

"  Looks  right  funny  to  be  here  to  an  infare  this 
night,  when  we-all  helt  the  weddin'  without  you 
last  night,"  Octavia  commented  amiably.  "I 
did  wish  the  both  o'  you  could  have  been  thar  to 
see  the  fun.  The  gals  and  boys  got  to  playin' 
games,  and  sorter  turned  it  into  a  play-party. 
Look  like  they  hardly  could  stop  theirselves  for 
supper.  Big  as  our  house  is,  hit  ain't  so  suited 
to  sech  as  yourn."  Again  she  looked  commend  - 
ingly  about  her.  "I  tell  you,  Callista,"  she  said 
over  and  over  again,  "I  think  yo'  Lance  has 
showed  the  most  good  sense  in  his  building  and 
fixing  up  of  any  young  man  I  ever  knew." 

But  she  need  not  have  troubled  greatly;  Lance 
had  no  consciousness  of  offense  in  him;  and  he 
was  busy  welcoming  guests,  going  out  to  help 
the  men  unhitch,  showing  those  who  had  ridden 
where  they  might  tether  their  horses;  or,  if  they 
liked,  unsaddle  and  turn  them  loose  in  his  brush- 
fenced  horse  lot,  which  was  later  to  be  a  truck- 
patch;  greeting  his  father  and  Sylvane,  and  grin- 
ning over  the  fact  that  Roxy  was  not  with  them, 
while  Mary  Ann  Martha  was. 

"Roxana  had  got  it  into  her  head  someway 
that  you-all  aimed  to  dance,  and  come  she  would 
not, "  Kimbro  said  plaintively. 

"She  was  bound  an'  determined  that  Ma'-Ann- 
Marth'  shouldn't  neither,"  Sylvane  took  up  the 


134  Lance  Cleaverage 

story.  "But  the  chap  helt  her  breath  —  didn't 
ye,  Pretty?  —  an'  looked  like  she'd  never  ketch 
it  again;  so  Sis'  Roxy  give  in." 

"Hey,  Unc'  Lance's  gal!"  the  bridegroom 
hailed  her,  as  the  fat  little  bundle  was  passed 
down  to  him  from  the  old  buckboard,  and  instantly 
caught  around  his  neck,  hugging  hard,  and  rooting 
a  delighted  face  against  his  cheek. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  when  Ola  Derf  rode 
up  alone  and  came  in.  Mountain  people  are  so 
courteous  to  each  other  as  to  make  those  who 
do  not  understand  call  them  deceitful.  Ola  was 
received  as  amiably  as  such  an  invader  might  have 
been  in  the  best  of  urban  society.  She  looked 
with  round,  avid  eyes  at  everything  about  her, 
and  finally  at  the  bride,  her  hostess. 

"An'  you  a-wearin'  them  slippers,"  she  com- 
mented. "I  told  Lance  I  knowed  in  reason  you 
would."  The  remark  was  made  in  the  further 
room,  where  the  girls  were  laying  off  their  things 
and  putting  them  down  .on  that  bed  where  Cal- 
lista,  a  little  bewildered  by  the  unsolicited  loan, 
had  spread  forth  the  wonderful  gospel  quilt. 

"Did  you  he'p  Lance  to  choose  Callisty's  slip- 
pers?" asked  Ellen  Hands. 

Rilly  Trigg  and  Little  Liza  stopped  in  the  door 
to  listen.  Octavia  Gentry  turned  from  the  shelves 
she  was  examining.  Even  Polly  ceased  to  stare 
across  the  open  entry  into  the  other  room  where 
most  of  the  men  were. 


The  Infare  135 

"Yes,"  said  Ola,  composedly,  seating  herself 
on  the  floor  to  adjust  her^own  footwear.  "He 
was  at  our  house  a-wantin'  to  buy  dancin'  slip- 
pers for  Callisty,  and  'course  he  knowed  I  would 
understand  what  was  needed.  I  reckon  Callisty 
couldn't  tell  him,  so  he  brought  one  of  her  shoes 
in  his  pocket,  and  axed  me.  Do  they  fit  ye, 
Callisty?" 

A  curious  change  had  come  over  the  bride's 
face,  yet  it  was  calm  and  even  fairly  smiling, 
as  she  answered  indifferently, 

"No.  I  wasn't  aimin'  to  wear  'em.  I  just 
tried  them  on.  They'  too  big  for  me."  And  she 
closed  the  door  and  went  resolutely  to  a  chest  in 
the  corner,  from  which  she  took  her  heavy,  country- 
made  shoes  to  replace  the  slippers  Lance's  love 
had  provided. 

The  Derf  girl  regarded  her  askance. 

"Ain't  you  afeared  you'll  make  him  mad  ef 
you  take  'em  off?"  she  asked  finally.  "I  know 
he  aims  to  have  you  dance  befo'  he's  done  with 
it,  and  you  cain't  noways  dance  in  them  thar 
things,"  looking  with  disfavor  at  the  clumsy 
shoes. 

"Callista  doesn't  dance,  and  she  ain't  a-goin' 
to,"  Octavia  Gentry  was  beginning  with  some 
heat,  when  her  daughter  interrupted. 

"Never  mind,  Mother,"  she  said  with  dignity. 
"  I  ain't  aimin'  to  dance,  and  I  reckon  you're  not. 
Maybe  Ola's  mistaken  in  regards  to  Lance," 


136  Lance  Cleaverage 

The  Derf  girl  laughed  shortly,  deep  in  her 
throat.  Before  she  could  speak,  the  closed  door 
jarred  open,  revealin  Roxy  Griever,  with  a  stout 
switch  in  her  hand. 

"  Whar's  Polly,"  the  newcomer  inquired  wrath- 
fully. 

"Mighty  glad  to  see  you,  Sis'  Roxy,"  cried 
Callista,  welcoming  the  diversion,  but  looking  with 
surprise  at  her  sister-in-law's  draggled  gingham 
on  which  the  night  dews  of  Laurel  Gulch  lay  thick, 
her  grim  visage,  and  her  switch.  "  Polly  —  she 
was  here  a  minute  ago." 

But  Polly,  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  her  sex, 
had  flown  to  Lance,  and  now  she  hid  behind  him, 
clinging  like  a  limpet. 

"Come  in,  Sis'  Roxy.  We're  proud  to  see  you 
here,"  shouted  Lance,  with  an  impudent  disregard 
of  anything  amiss,  and  a  new  householder's 
enthusiastic  hospitality. 

"Did  you  send  me  word  that  you  was  a-goin' 
to  have  me  call  off  the  dances?"  the  widow 
demanded  in  an  awful  voice. 

Her  scrapegrace  brother  laughed  in  her  face. 

"That  was  jest  a  mighty  pore  joke,  Sis'  Roxy," 
he  explained.  "We-all  was  goin'  to  play  some 
games,  and  I  know  you'  a  powerful  good  hand  to 
get  us  started.  Come  on;  fix  the  boys  and  gals 
like  they  ought  to  be  for  that"  -he  hesitated 
a  little,  frowning  -  -  "  that  play  we  used  to  have 
sometimes  where  they  all  stand  up  in  couples,  and 


The  Infare  137 

-  Wait,  I'll  get  my  banjo  and  play  a  tune  and 
you'll  see  what  I  mean." 

Lance  had  not  lived  his  twenty-three  years 
with  his  sister  Roxy  to  fail  now  in  finding  her  weak 
side.  She  loved  lights,  a  crowd,  as  he  did.  True, 
she  wished  to  harangue  the  crowd,  and  the  lights 
must  be  to  reveal  her,  playing  the  pictorially 
pious  part;  yet  a  Virginia  Reel,  disguised  as  a 
game,  answered  well  to  give  her  executive  powers 
scope  and  swing,  and  they  were  in  the  thick  of 
the  fun  when  the  women  came  from  the  other 
room. 

In  the  moments  of  her  detention  in  that  room, 
Ola  had  begun  to  find  whether  being  bidden  to  a 
festivity  really  made  one  a  guest.  Rilly  Trigg 
whispered  apart  to  Callista,  and  looked  out  of  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  at  the  newcomer.  Lance's  wife 
evidently  reproved  her  for  doing  so,  but  a  smile 
went  with  the  words.  Octavia  Gentry  spoke 
solemnly  to  the  Derf  girl,  asking  after  the  health  of 
her  parents  in  a  tone  so  chilly  that  the  outsider 
felt  herself  indefinitely  accused. 

"I  don't  keer,"  she  muttered  to  herself  rebelli- 
ously,  "hit's  Lance's  house.  Lance  ain't  a-goin  to 
th'ow  off  on  old  friends  just  becaze  he's  wedded." 

On  the  instant  she  entered  the  other  room,  and 
had  sight  of  her  host,  flushed,  laughing-eyed,  his 
brown  curls  rumpled,  the  banjo  in  his  lap,  swaying 
to  the  rhythm  of  "Greenbacks,"  as  Roxy  Griever 
struggled  to  keep  the  boys  and  girls  in  an  orderly 


138  Lance  Cleaverage 

line  while  she  showed  them  how  to  "  Shake  hands 
acrost-like." 

The  dull  little  face  lighted  up.  Here  was  some- 
thing at  which  Ola  felt  she  could  help,  a  ground 
upon  which  she  was  equal  to  the  best  of  them. 

"Hit's  a  reel!"  she  exclaimed  joyously.  "I'll 
call  off  for  ye,  Lance." 

As  though  her  words  had  been  some  sort  of  evil 
incantation,  the  pretty  group  dissolved  instantly. 
The  girls  fled  giggling  and  exclaiming;  the  boys 
shouldered  sheepishly  away;  only  the  Widow 
Griever  remained  to  confront  the  spoil-sport  with 
acid  visage  and  swift  reproof.  Roxy  wound  up 
the  hostilities  that  ensued  by  declaring, 

"You  can  dance,  and  Brother  Lance  kin,  ef 
them's  yo'  ruthers ;  but  ye  cain't  mix  me  in.  That 
thar  was  a  game  I  played  when  I  went  to  the 
old  field  hollerin'  school.  Call  hit  a  reel  ef  ye  want 
to  —  oh,  call  hit  a  reel  —  shore !  But  ye  cain't 
put  yo'  wickedness  on  me." 

"Yes,"  returned  Ola  hardily,  "I  played  it  at 
school,  too.  But  it's  the  Virginia  Reel,  and  Lance 
said  he  was  goin'  to  have  dancin'  here  to-night. 
Ain't  ye,  Lance?  I  brung  my  slippers." 

Roxy  Griever  turned  and  flounced  out.  Lance 
smiled  indulgently  at  Ola.  His  sister's  warlike 
demonstrations  amused  him  mightily  and  put  him 
in  a  good  humor. 

"Sure,"  he  agreed  largely.  "You  and  me 
will  have  'em  all  dancin'  before  we're  done.  I 


The  Infare  139 

wish't  we  had  Preacher  Drumright  here  to  pat  for 
us." 

The  sedate  guests,  though  they  laughed  a  little, 
fell  away  from  these  two,  leaving  them  standing 
alone  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  while  some  of  the 
boys  and  girls  lingered,  staring  and  giggling, 
wondering  what  they  would  do  or  say  next. 

"  'Pears  like  they  ain't  nobody  but  you  and  me 
to  do  the  dancin',"  Ola  began  doubtfully,  "an' 
if  you  have  to  play  — 

She  broke  off.  In  the  doorway  that  led  to  the 
little  back  room  appeared  the  solemn  countenance 
of  the  Widow  Griever.  This  worthy  woman  fixed 
a  cold  eye  upon  her  brother  and  beckoned  him 
silently  with  ghostly  finger. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  Ola,"  hetold  his  unwel- 
come addition  to  the  company,  the  wedge  he  had 
driven  into  their  ranks,  and  which  seemed  about 
to  split  them  asunder. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE    INTERLOPER. 

LANCE  found  his  father  and  Octavia  Gentry 
awaiting  him  in  the  lean-to  kitchen,  Kimbro 
Cleaverage  anxious  and  deprecating.  Old  Ajax 
had  dodged  the  issue,  and  Sylvane  was  out  in 
the  other  room  trying  to  get  the  boys  and  girls 
to  playing  again.  But  Callista  was  there  —  not 
beside  her  mother  —  she  stood  near  the  door,  a 
little  pale  and  looking  anywhere  but  at  her  bride- 
groom. Lance  Cleaverage 's  eye,  half  scornful, 
swept  the  scattered  grouo  and  read  their  attitude 
aright. 

"Anything  the  matter  with  you-all?"  he  in- 
quired suavely. 

"Yes,  they's  a-plenty  the  matter  with  us,  and 
with  all  decent  and  respectable  persons  here  in 
this  house  gathered  this  night,"  the  Widow  Griever 
began  in  a  high,  shaking,  unnatural  voice. 

"I  reckon  all  that  means  Ola  Derf,  for  short," 
cut  in  Lance,  not  choosing  to  be  bored  with  a 
lengthy  harangue. 

"Yes,  it  does,"  Roxy  told  him.  "That  thar 
gal  would  never  have  been  bidden  to  Miz.  Gentry's 
house.  Callisty  would  never  have  been  called 
on  to  even  herself  with  sech,  long  as  she  staid 

140 


The  Interloper 

under  her  gran 'pappy 's  roof.  And  when  it  conies 
to  what  it  did  out  in  'tother  room,  it's  more  than 
Callisty  that  suffers." 

"  Suffers !  "  echoed  her  brother  with  a  contemp- 
tuous grin.  "Well,  if  that  don't  beat  my  time! 
I  reckon  Ola  Derf  cain't  eat  any  of  you-all.  She's 
just  a  little  old  gal,  and  you're  a  good-sized  crowd 
of  able-bodied  folks  —  what  harm  can  she  do 
you?  " 

"Well,  Lance,"  began  his  mother-in-law,  with 
studied  moderation,  though  she  was  plainly  in- 
censed, "I  do  not  think  hit's  any  way  for  you  to 
do  —  evening  Callista  with  such  folks.  She  ain't 
used  to  it." 

Lance  looked  to  where  Callista  yet  held  aloof 
near  the  door,  pale  and  silent,  avoiding  his  eye. 

"A  man  and  his  wife  are  one,"  he  said,  with 
less  confidence  than  would  have  been  his  earlier 
in  the  day.  "What's  good  enough  for  me  is 
good  enough  for  Callista." 

He  got  no  sign  of  agreement  from  his  bride  — 
and  he  had  expected  it. 

"Son,  I  think  you  made  a  mistake  to  bid  that 
Derf  gal  here,"  spoke  old  Kimbro  mildly.  "But 
don't  you  let  her  start  up  any  foolishness,  and 
we'll  all  get  through  without  further  trouble." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  the  Widow  Griever's  most 
rasping  tones.  "She  called  the  game  I  was  a- 
showin'  the  boys  and  gals  a  Virginia  Reel,  an' 
'lowed  she'd  call  off  for  us.  Call  off!"  Roxy 


Lance  Cleaverage 

snorted.     "A  lot  of  perfessin'  Christians  to  dance 
—  dance  to  Ola  Derf's  callin'  off!  " 

Once  more  Lance's  eye  swept  the  circle  of 
hostile,  alien  faces.  His  sense  of  fair  play  was 
touched.  Also,  he  felt  himself  pushed  outside 
and  set  to  defending  his  solitary  camp,  with  the 
whole  front  of  respectability  arrayed  against  him. 
This,  so  far  as  the  others  were  concerned,  was 
the  usual  thing;  it  daunted  him  not  at  all.  But 
when  he  looked  to  Callista,  and  saw  that  at  the 
first  call  she  had  left  him  —  left  him  alone  - 
arrayed  herself  with  the  enemy  —  a  new,  strange, 
stinging  pain  went  through  his  spirit.  He  smiled, 
while  odd  lights  began  to  bicker  in  his  eyes. 

"O-oo-oh,"  he  said  in  a  soft,  careless  voice, 
"didn't  you-all  know  that  I  aim  to  have  dancin'? 
Why,  of  course  I  do."  And  he  walked  away 
with  head  aslant,  leaving  them  dumb. 

It  was  but  a  retort,  the  usual  quick  defiance 
from  the  Lance  Cleaverage  who  would  not  be 
catechized,  reproved ;  yet  when  he  entered  the 
outer  room  and  found  Ola  drawn  over  at  one 
side,  unfriended,  while  a  knot  of  whispering  girls, 
quite  across  the  floor  from  her,  cast  glances 
athwart  shoulders  in  her  direction,  the  good  will 
of  old  comradeship,  the  anger  of  the  host  who 
sees  his  guest  mistreated,  pushed  forward  his 
resolution. 

"  I  reckon  I'd  better  be  goin'  home,"  Ola  said 
to  the  pale  Callista,  who  followed  her  husband 


The  Interloper  143 

from  the  back  room.  "  Looks  like  I'm  in  the  way 
here ;  and  mebbe  Lance  ort  not  to  have  bid  me  — 
hit's  yo'  house." 

The  bride  looked  from  her  bridegroom  to  the 
brown  girl  strangely.  In  her  own  fashion,  she 
was  as  unwilling  to  be  outdone  as  Lance  himself. 
"This  here  is  Lance's  house,"  she  said  coldly. 
"He  bids  them  that  he  chooses  to  it.  But  I 
reckon  he  don't  aim  to  have  any  dancin'." 

Roxy  Griever  paused  in  the  doorway  and 
peered  in. 

"  I  reckon  the  trouble  is  that  none  of  the  folks 
here  know  how  to  dance,"  Ola  was  saying  doubt- 
fully. "Let's  you  and  me  show  'em,  Lance. 
Come  on." 

Wildly,  the  sister  cast  about  her  for  aid.  Old 
Ajax  regarded  the  scene  with .  the  same  covert 
enjoyment  he  had  given  another  domestic  em- 
broglio.  Her  father  had  slipped  through  a  back 
door  under  pretense  of  seeing  to  the  horse.  Her 
glance  fell  on  Flenton  Hands.  This  was  the  man 
for  her  need. 

Earlier  in  the  evening,  when  Flenton  made  his 
appearance  in  Lance  Cleaverage's  house,  accom- 
panying his  sisters,  Octavia  had  murmured, 
"Well,  I  vow!  Ef  I'd  'a'  been  him,  ox  chains  and 
plow  lines  couldn't  have  drug  me  here,  after  what 
was  said  an'  done  last  night."  Even  Roxana  had 
wondered  at  the  cold  obtuseness  that  could  prompt 
the  acceptance  on  Flent's  part  of  that  general 


H4  Lance  Cleaverage 

invitation  Lance  had  flung  back  over  his  shoulder 
to  the  deserted  wedding  guests,  and  looked  in 
vain  to  see  what  it  was  that  Hands  expected  to 
gain  by  his  attitude.  There  was  some  whispering 
and  staring  among  the  other  guests,  but  Flenton 
Hands  was  admitted  to  be  "quare,"  and  his 
connection  with  the  Settlement  offered  a  ready 
means  of  accounting  for  his  not  doing  things  like 
other  people.  Now  the  Widow  Griever  felt  that 
Providence  —  it  is  wonderful  how  people  of  her 
sort  find  Providence  ever  retained  on  their  own 
side  of  the  case  —  had  dictated  the  attendance  of 
this  exemplary  and  godly  person,  second  only  in 
authority  concerning  church  matters  to  Brother 
Drumright.  She  hastily  dragged  him  aside,  pour- 
ing out  the  whole  matter,  in  voluble,  hissing 
whispers,  with  many  backward  jerks  of  the  head 
or  thumb  toward  where  Ola  and  Lance,  in  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  boys  and  girls,  still  laughed  and 
joked. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  ort  to  mix  into  this  here 
business,"  Hands  began  cautiously  —  the  man 
was  not  altogether  a  fool.  "The  way  things  has 
turned  out,  looks  like  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  inter- 
fere." 

"  'Course  you  have,"  Roxy  Griever  told  him. 
"Preacher  Drumright  ain't  here  —  ef  he  was,  I'd 
not  even  have  to  name  it  to  him;  he'd  walk  right 
up  to  Lance  Cleaverage  in  a  minute  —  spite  o' 
the  way  Lance  done  him  last  night  —  an'  tell 


The  Interloper  145 

him  what  he  ort  an'  ort  not  to  do.  An'  yo'  the 
next  after  Preacher  Drumright.  Go  'long,  Flen- 
ton.  Speak  to  him.  Mr.  Gentry  won't,  an' 
Poppy's  done  left  to  git  out  of  hit.  Poppy  never 
would  do  what  he  ort  where  Lance  was  consarned. 
He  wouldn't  give  that  boy  discipline  when  he 
could  have  kivvered  him  with  one  hand  —  an' 
now  look  at  the  fruits  of  it!" 

Thus  urged,  Flenton  made  a  somewhat  laborious 
progress  toward  the  middle  of  the  room.  Deep 
in  that  curious,  indirect,  unsound  nature  of  his 
was  the  hankering  to  brave  Lance  Cleaverage 
in  his  own  house,  to  insult  and  overcome  him 
there  before  Callista;  but  the  pluck  required  to 
undertake  the  enterprise  was  not  altogether 
moral  courage ;  in  spite  of  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
there  might  be  some  physical  demand  in  the 
matter,  and  this  Flenton  was  scarcely  prepared  to 
answer. 

He  halted  long  at  his  host's  shoulder,  seeking  * 
an  opportunity  to  enter  the  conversation.  Ola 
paid  no  attention  to  him;  Callista  stood  a  little 
apart  from  the  two,  looking  down,  playing  with  a 
fold  of  her  skirt.  Finally,  most  of  the  people  in 
the  room  noted  something  strained  and  peculiar 
in  the  situation  of  affairs,  and  began  to  stare  and 
listen.  Flenton  cleared  his  throat. 

" Brother  Cleaverage,"  he  essayed  in  a  rather 
husky  voice. 

Lance   wheeled    upon   him   with   eyes    alight. 


146  Lance  Cleaverage 

Thrusting  his  hands  far  down  in  his  pockets,  he 
stared  at  Flenton  Hands  from  head  to  foot.  Then 
his  glance  traveled  to  the  widow  behind  Flenton's 
shoulder. 

"We-e-ell,  well,"  he  drawled,  with  a  lazy  laugh 
in  his  voice,  "have  you  and  Sis'  Roxy  made  a 
match  of  it?  That's  the  only  way  you'll  ever 
get  to  be  kin  to  me,  and  name  me  brother,  Flen- 
ton Hands." 

Roxy's  long  drab  face  crimsoned  darkly,  and 
she  fluttered  in  wild  embarrassment.  Hands 
laughed  gratingly,  but  there  was  no  amusement 
in  the  sound. 

"  No, "  he  returned  in  his  best  pulpit  manner  — 
he  was  sometimes  called  upon  to  officiate  at  small 
gatherings  when  the  preacher  could  not  be  present 
-  "  no,  yo'  worthy  sister  an'  me  hain't  had  our 
minds  on  any  such.  But  we  have  been  talking  of 
a  ser'ous  matter,  Brother  Cleaverage." 

The  form  of  address  slipped  out  inadvertently, 
and  Hands  looked  uncomfortable.  Lance  shook 
his  head. 

"I  ain't  yo'  brother,"  he  demurred,  with 
exaggerated  patience.  "You*  gettin'  the  families 
all  mixed  up.  Hit  was  Callista  I  married." 

The  boys  and  girls  listening  were  convulsed 
with  silent  mirth.  Rilly  Trigg  snickered  aloud, 
and  little  Polly  ventured  to  follow  along  the  same 
line.  Flenton's  pale  face  reddened  faintly. 

"  I  know  mighty  well-an'-good  you  ain't  brother 


The  Interloper  14? 

of  mine,  Lance  Cleaverage,"  he  said  doggedly. 
"Ef  you  was,  I'd  — I'd— " 

"  Say  it,"  prompted  Lance,  standing  at  ease  and 
surveying  his  adversary  with  amusement.  "  Speak 
out  what's  in  you.  You  got  me  right  here  in  my 
own  house  where  I'd  be  ashamed  to  give  you 
yo'  dues.  Now's  the  time  to  free  yo'  mind. 
I  ain't  fit  to  have  Callista,  is  that  it?  She  could 
a'  done  better  —  that's  what  you  want  to  tell  me, 
ain't  it?" 

There  was  a  perfect  chorus  of  approving  giggles 
at  this,  extending  even  to  the  male  portion  of  the 
company.  The  tinge  of  color  left  Flenton's  sallow 
cheeks,  and  they  were  paler  than  usual;  but  he 
hung  to  his  purpose. 

"  I've  been  axed  by  them  that  thinks  you  ought 
to  be  dealt  with,  to  reason  with  you."  He 
finally  got  well  under  way.  "Callista  Gentry 
belongs  to  a  perfessin'  family  —  she's  all  but  a 
church  member.  You  fussed  with  the  preacher 
last  night  and  tuck  her  away  from  in  front  of 
him,  an'  married  her  before  a  ongodly  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  an'  now  you  air  makin'  motions 
like  you  was  a-goin'  to  dance  here  in  her  house. 
Yo'  sister  said  that  yo'  father  wouldn't  do 
nothin',  and  she  axed  me  would  I  name  these 
things  out  to  you;  and  I  said  I  would.  Thar. 
I've  spoke  as  I  was  axed.  Looks  like  the  man 
that's  got  Callista  Gentry  could  afford  to  behave 
hisself." 


148  Lance  Cleaverage 

With  each  new  accusation,  Lance's  lids  had 
dropped  a  bit  lower  over  the  bright  eyes,  till  now 
a  mere  line  of  fire  showed  between  the  lashes, 
and  followed  the  movement  of  Flenton's  heavily 
swung  shoulders,  as  he  emphasized  his  words 
with  uncouth  shruggings.  Yet  when  all  was  said, 
only  the  conclusion  seemed  to  stay  in  Lance's 
mind.  He  was  asked  to  do  and  be  much  be- 
cause he  had  Callista.  But  what  of  the  bride? 
Was  not  something  due  from  Callista  because  she 
had  him  ? 

"'Pears  to  me  like  you're  in  a  mighty  curious 
place,  Flenton  Hands,"  he  began  in  a  silky, 
musing  voice.  "  Ef  you  was  wedded  to  anybody- 
jest  anybody  —  I'd  shorely  keep  out  o'  your  way 
and  let  you  alone.  Is  this  yo'  business?  Have 
I  asked  yo'  ruthers?  Has  Callista?  I  got  just 
the  one  word  to  say  to  you  —  an'  it  can't  be  said 
here  in  my  house.  But  it  shall  be  spoken  when 
and  where  we  meet  next  —  you  mind  that!  " 

A  sudden,  tense  hush  fell  on  the  room.  Did 
this  mean  the  declaration  of  war  which  amounts 
to  a  one-man  feud  in  the  mountains,  and  which 
finally  reaches  the  point  where  it  is  kill  or  be 
killed  on  sight?  Flenton  dropped  back  with  a 
blanched,  twisted  countenance.  He  had  not  bar- 
gained for  so  much. 

The  young  host  looked  around.  His  company 
had  separated  itself  swiftly  into  sheep  and  goats, 
the  elders  and  the  primmer  portion  of  the  young 


The  Interloper  149 

people  whispering  together  apart,  while  the  bolder 
youthful  spirits  gathered  in  a  ring  about  himself 
and  Ola  Derf.  One  of  these,  Rilly  Trigg  perhaps, 
took  up  the  banjo  and  commenced  laboriously  to 
pick  chords  on  it. 

"Now,  if  Callisty  could  only  dance,  we'd  shore 
see  fun,"  Ola  Derf  suggested. 

Lance  looked  to  where  his  bride  stood,  aloof, 
mute,  with  bitten  lip,  listening  to  what  her  mother 
whispered  in  her  ear.  Yes,  he  was  alone  once 
more;  she  was  with  the  enemy.  His  glance  took 
the  girl  in  from  head  to  foot.  He  saw  that  she 
had  removed  his  first  gift,  the  slippers. 

"Callista  can  dance  about  as  much  as  you  can 
play,  Rill,"  he  said  mockingly. 

The  bride  lowered  white  lids  over  scornful  eyes 
and  turned  her  back.  Rilly  laid  down  the  banjo. 
A  couple  of  the  boys  began  to  pat. 

"Come  on,  Lance,"  whispered  Ola  defiantly. 
"I  dare  ye  to  dance.  I  bet  yo'  scared  to." 

A  dare  —  it  was  Lance  Cleaverage's  boast  that 
he  would  never  take  a  dare  from  the  Lord  Al- 
mighty. He  flung  himself  lightly  into  position. 
"Pat  for  us,  Buck,  cain't  you?"  he  suggested 
half  derisively.  Then,  with  a  swift,  graceful 
bending  of  the  lithe  body,  he  saluted  his  partner 
and  began. 

The  Derf  girl  was  a  muscular  little  creature; 
she  moved  with  the  tirelessness  of  a  swaying 
branch  in  the  wind;  and  Lance  himself  was  a 


i5°  Lance  Cleaverage 

wonder,  when  he  felt  like  dancing.  The  circle  of 
young  people  mended  itself  and  grew  closer.  The 
two  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  advanced  toward 
each  other,  caught  hands,  whirled,  retreated,  and 
improvised  steps  to  the  time  of  Fuson's  spatting 
palms. 

It  was  a  pretty  enough  sight,  and  innocent, 
except  for  what  had  gone  before.  Roxy  Griever 
had  retired  in  some  disarray,  upon  Lance's 
sarcastic  coupling  of  her  name  with  that  of 
Flenton  Hands.  Now,  coming  into  the  room 
with  the  supposition  in  her  mind  that  every- 
thing was  settled  in  a  proper  way,  she  caught 
sight  of  the  two  and  stiffened  into  rigidity.  For 
a  moment  she  stared;  then,  as  the  full  meaning 
of  the  scene  burst  upon  her,  she  made  three  long 
steps  to  where  the  youthful  Polly  stood,  taking 
in  everything  with  big,  enjoying  eyes,  seized  her 
by  the  scant,  soiled  homespun  frock,  and  hauled 
her  backward  from  the  room,  Polly  clawing, 
scrabbling,  hanging  to  the  door  frame  as  she  was 
snatched  through. 

"Poppy,"  shrilled  the  widow,  in  the  direction 
of  peaceful  old  Kimbro,  using  the  tone  of  one 
who  cries  fire,  "you  kin  stay  ef  yo're  a  mind 
—  an'  Sylvane  can  do  the  same.  The  best  men 
I  ever  knowed  -  -  'ceptin'  preachers  —  has  a 
hankerin'  for  sin.  Ma'y-Ann-Marth',  she's  asleep, 
an'  what  she  don't  see  cain't  hurt  her.  But  as 
for  me,  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  this  here  child  home 


The  Interloper  151 

where  she  won't  have  the  likes  of  that  to  look 
at.  I  feel  jest  as  if  it  was  some  ketchin'  disease, 
and  the  fu'ther  you  git  away  from  it,  the  safer 
you  air." 

The  last  of  these  words  trailed  back  from  the 
dark,  into  which  the  Widow  Griever  and  her 
small,  reluctant  charge  were  rapidly  receding. 

Kimbro  and  his  son  remained,  intending  to 
remonstrate  with  Lance  when  he  should  have 
finished  his  dancing.  Octavia  Gentry  came  and 
made  hasty  farewells,  hoping  thus  to  stop  the 
performance.  Callista  stood  looking  quietly  past 
the  dancers  to  some  air-drawn  point  on  the  wall, 
and  her  expression  of  quiet  composure  was  held 
by  all  observers  to  be  remarkable. 

"Oh,  no,  Mother,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  and 
Gran'pappy  are  never  goin'  out  of  my  house 
before  you  have  eat.  Come  taste  the  coffee  for 
me  and  see  have  I  got  it  about  right.  When  I 
was  gettin'  my  supper  for  to-night,  I  found  out 
that  there  was  many  a  thing  you  hadn't  learned 
me  at  home;  so  you'll  have  to  show  me  now." 

With  a  dignity  irreproachable,  apparently  quite 
oblivious  to  the  dancers,  the  patting,  the  laugh- 
ing, shouting  onlookers,  Callista  smilingly  mar- 
shalled her  forces  and  put  forward  her  really 
excellent  supper.  Here  her  pride  matched  Lance's 
—  and  overmatched  it.  He  might  dance,  he 
might  fling  the  doing  of  it  in  her  face  and  the 
faces  of  her  kindred;  she  would  show  herself  un- 


Lance  Cleaverage 

moved,  and  mistress  of  any  situation  which  he 
could  contrive. 

And  the  supper  was  a  strong  argument.  People 
in  all  walks  of  life  love  to  eat;  those  who  danced 
and  those  who  held  dancing  sinful,  were  alike  in 
their  appreciation  of  good  victual.  It  was  only 
a  few  moments  before  this  counter  movement 
broke  up  the  saltations  in  the  front  room  and  the 
infare  appeared,  from  an  observer's  point  of  view, 
a  great  success,  as  the  happy,  laughing  crowd 
circled  about  the  long  tables,  those  who  had  joined 
to  forward  the  dance  coming  out  looking  half 
sheepish,  altogether  apologetic  and  conciliatory. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  Sis'  Roxy  had  to  go  home," 
Callista  said  composedly,  as  she  served  her  father- 
in-law  with  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee.  "I'm 
goin'  to  make  a  little  packet  of  this  here  cake 
and  the  preserves  Mammy  brought  over,  and  send 
them  by  you.  I  want  her  to  taste  them." 

The  host  was  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  But 
unobserved,  his  eye  often  followed  the  movements 
of  the  bride,  and  dwelt  with  a  warm  glow  upon  the 
graceful  form  in  its  womanly  attitude  of  serving 
her  guests.  She  had  fairfy-  beaten  him  on  his  own 
ground.  A  secret  pride  in  her,  that  she  could  do 
it,  swelled  his  breast  and  ran  tingling  along  his 
veins. 

So  much  for  the  company  at  large,  for  what 
Callista  would  have  called  "the  speech  of  people." 
When  the  last  guest  was  gone  the  bride  faced  the 


The  Interloper  153 

bridegroom  alone  in  the  house  which  had  seemed 
to  her  so  fine.  Cold,  expectant  of  some  apology, 
offended,  bewildered,  yet  ready  to  be  placated. 

Lance  offered  no  excuses,  but  plenty  of  kisses, 
praise,  and  an  ardor  that,  while  it  did  not  con- 
vince, melted  and  subdued  her.  The  breach  was 
covered  temporarily,  rather  than  healed. 


CHAPTER   X. 

POVERTY    PRIDE. 

TT  was  inevitable  that  Callista  should  find 
•^  promptly  how  impossible  is  the  attitude  of 
scornful  miss  to  the  married  wife,  particularly 
when  her  husband's  daily  labor  must  provide  the 
house  whose  keeping  depends  upon  herself.  Lance, 
too,  though  he  continued  to  give  no  evidence 
whatever  of  penitence,  was  full  of  the  masterful 
tenderness  whose  touch  had  brought  his  bride  to 
his  arms.  The  girl  was  not  of  a  jealous  temper; 
she  was  not  deeply  offended  at  the  reckless 
behavior  which  had  disturbed  the  inf  are,  any  more 
than  she  had  been  at  his  conduct  on  the  wedding 
evening.  Indeed,  there  was  that  in  Callista 
Cleaverage  which  could  take  pride  in  being  wife 
to  the  man  who,  challenged,  would  fling  a  laughing 
defiance  in  the  face  of  all  his  world.  It  remained 
for  a  very  practical  question  —  what  might  almost 
be  termed  an  economic  one  —  to  wear  hard  on 
the  bond  between  them. 

They  had  married  all  in  haste  while  September 
was  still  green  over  the  land.  The  commodious 
new  cabin  at  the  head  of  Lance's  Laurel  was  well 
plenished  and  its  food  supplies  sufficient  during 
the  first  few  weeks  of  life  there;  in  fact,  Lance 

'54 


Poverty  Pride  155 

gave  without  question  whatever  Callista  asked  of 
him  —  a  thing  unheard  of  in  their  world  —  and 
Callista's  ideas  of  asking  were  not  small  nor  was 
she  timid  about  putting  them  into  practice.  The 
pair  of  haggards  might  have  seemed,  to  the  casual 
onlooker,  safely  settled  to  calm  domestic  hap- 
piness. 

Day  by  day  the  gold  and  blue  of  September 
inclined  toward  the  October  purple  and  scarlet. 
The  air  was  invigorated  by  frost.  The  forest 
green,  reflected  in  creek-pools,  was  full  of  russet 
and  olive,  against  whose  shadowy  background  here 
and  there  a  gum  or  sourwood,  earliest  to  turn  of  all 
the  trees,  blazed  like  a  deep  red  plume.  Occa- 
sional banners  of  crimson  began  to  show  in  the 
maples  and  plum  colored  boughs  in  sweet-gums. 
The  perfect  days  of  all  the  year  were  come. 

Mid-October  was  wonderfully  clear  and  sweet 
up  at  the  head  of  Lance's  Laurel;  the  color  key 
became  richer,  more  royal;  the  sunset  rays  along 
the  hill-tops  a  more  opulent  yellow. 

It  was  not  till  the  leaves  were  sifting  down  red 
and  yellow  over  her  dooryard,  that  Callista  got 
from  Lance  the  full  story  concerning  their  re- 
sources, and  the  havoc  he  had  made  of  them 
to  get  ready  money  from  Derf.  He  had  been 
hauling  tanbark  all  this  time  to  pay  the  unjust 
debt.  When  she  knew,  even  her  inexperience 
was  staggered  —  dismayed.  So  far,  she  had  not 
gone  home,  and  she  shut  her  lips  tight  over  the 


156  Lance  Cleaverage 

resolution  not  now  to  do  so  with  a  request  for 
that  aid  which  her  grandfather  had  refused  in 
advance. 

"We'll  make  out,  I  reckon,"  she  said  to  her 
husband  dubiously. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  along  all  right,"  returned  that 
hardy  adventurer,  easily.  "  We'll  scrabble  through 
the  winter  somehow.  In  the  summer  I  can  always 
make  a-plenty  at  haulin'  or  at  my  trade.  I'm 
goin'  to  put  in  the  prettiest  truck-patch  anybody 
ever  saw  for  you;  and  then  we'll  live  fat,  Callista." 
He  added  suddenly,  "Come  summer  we'll  go 
camping  over  on  the  East  Fork  of  Caney.  There's 
a  place  over  on  that  East  Fork  that  I  believe  in 
my  soul  nobody's  been  since  the  Indians,  till  I 
found  it.  There's  a  little  rock  house  and  a 
spring  —  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  too  much 
about  it  till  you  see  it." 

Callista  hearkened  with  vague  alarm,  and  a 
sort  of  impatience. 

"But  you'll  clear  enough  ground  for  a  good 
truck-patch  before  we  go,"  she  put  in  jealously. 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Lance  without  apparently 
noting  what  her  words  were.  "  I  never  in  my 
life  did  see  as  fine  huckleberries  as  grows  down 
in  that  little  holler,"  he  pursued.  "We'll  go  in 
huckleberry  time." 

"And  maybe  I  can  put  some  up,"  said  Callista, 
the  practical,  beginning  to  take  interest  in  the 
scheme. 


Poverty  Pride  157 

"Shore,"  was  Lance's  prompt  assent.  "I  can 
put  up  fruit  myself  —  I'll  help  you." 

He  laughed  as  he  said  it ;  those  changeful  hazel 
eyes  of  his  glowed,  and  he  dropped  an  arm 
around  her  in  that  caressing  fashion  not  common 
in  the  mountains,  and  which  ever  touched  Callista's 
cooler  nature  like  a  finger  of  fire,  so  that  now, 
almost  against  her  will,  she  smiled  back  at  him, 
and  returned  his  kiss  fondly.  Yet  she  thought 
he  took  the  situation  too  lightly.  It  was  not  he 
that  would  suffer.  He  was  used  to  living  hard 
and  going  without.  She  would  be  willing  to  do 
the  same  for  his  sake ;  but  she  wanted  to  have  him 
know  it  —  to  have  him  speak  of  it  and  praise  her 
for  it. 

The  season  wore  on  with  thinning  boughs  and 
a  thickening  carpet  beneath.  The  grass  was  gone. 
Men  riding  after  valley  stock,  sent  up  to  fatten 
on  the  highlands,  searched  the  mountains  all  day 
with  dogs  and  resonant  calls.  They  stopped 
outside  Callista's  fence  to  make  careful  inquiries 
concerning  the  welfare  or  whereabouts  of  shoats 
and  heifers. 

"Yes,  and  they've  run  so  much  stock  up  here 
this  year,"  Lance  said  resentfully  when  she 
mentioned  it  to  him,  "  that  there  ain't  scarcely  an 
acorn  or  a  blade  of  grass  left  to  help  out  our'n 
through  the  winter.  I'm  afraid  I'm  goin'  to 
have  to  let  Dan  Bayliss  down  in  the  Settlement 
take  Sate  and  Sin  in  his  livery  stable  for  their 


i58  Lance  Cleaverage 

keep.  The  time's  about  over  for  haulin'.  I 
can't  afford  to  have  them  come  up  to  spring  all 
ga'nted  and  poorly." 

Days  born  in  rose  drifts,  buried  themselves  in 
gold;  groundhogs  and  all  wild  creatures  of  the 
woods  were  happy  with  a  plentitude  of  fare; 
partridges  were  calling,  "wifey  —  wifey!"  under 
wayside  bushes ;  the  last  leaves  had  their  own  song 
of  renunuciation  as  they  let  go  the  boughs  and 
floated  softly  down  to  join  their  companions  on 
the  earth.  One  evening,  gray  and  white  cirri 
swirled  as  if  dashed  in  by  a  great,  careless  brush, 
and  the  next  morning,  a  dawn  strewn  with 
flamingo  feathers  foretold  a  rainy  time.  All  that 
day  the  weather  thickened  slowly,  the  sky  became 
deeply  overspread.  At  first  this  minor-color  key 
was  a  relief,  a  rest,  after  the  blaze  of  foliage  and 
sun.  A  rain  set  in  at  nightfall,  and  a  wind 
sprang  up  in  whooping  gusts;  and  on  every 
hearth  in  the  Turkey  Tracks  a  blaze  leaped 
gloriously,  roaring  in  the  chimney's  throat,  licking 
lovingly  around  the  kettle.  These  fires  are  the 
courage  of  the  mountain  soldier  and  hunter. 
Only  Callista,  warming  her  feet  by  the  blaze  in  the 
chimney  Lance  had  built,  thought  apprehensively 
of  the  time  when  she  should  have  no  horse  to  ride, 
so  that  when  she  went  to  meeting,  or  to  her  own 
home,  she  must  foot  it  through  the  mud. 

It  was  an  austere  region's  brief  season  of  plenty. 
Not  yet  cold  enough  to  kill  hogs,  all  crops  were 


Poverty  Pride  159 

garnered  and  stored;  there  was  new  sorghum, 
there  were  new  sweet  potatoes,  plenty  of  whip- 
poor-will  peas  —  but  Callista's  cupboard  was  get- 
ting very  bare  indeed.  She  looked  with  dismay 
toward  the  months  ahead  of  her. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  she  welcomed  one 
morning  the  sight  of  Ellen  Hands  and  Little 
Liza  going  past  on  the  road  below. 

"Howdy,"  called  Ellen,  as  the  bride  showed  a 
disposition  to  come  down  and  talk  to  them.  Each 
woman  carried  a  big,  heavy  basket  woven  of 
white  oak  splints.  Little  Liza  held  up  hers  and 
shook  it.  -  "We're  on  our  way  to  pick  peas," 
she  shouted.  "Don't  you  want  to  come  and  go 
'long?  Bring  yo'  basket.  They'  mighty  good 
eating  when  they'  fresh  this-a-way." 

Callista  would  have  said  no,  but  she  remembered 
the  empty  cupboard,  and  turned  back  seeking  a 
proper  receptacle.  At  home,  they  considered 
field -peas  poor  food,  but  beggars  must  not  be 
choosers.  She  joined  the  two  at  the  gate  in  a 
moment  with  a  sack  tucked  under  her  arm.  It 
was  a  delightful  morning  after  the  rain.  She 
was  glad  she  could  come.  The  peas  were  better 
than  nothing,  and  she  would  get  one  of  the  girls 
to  show  her  about  cooking  them. 

"  Whose  field  are  you  going  to  ?"  she  asked  them, 
carelessly. 

"  Why,  yo'  gran'-pappy's.  Didn't  you  know  it, 
Callisty?"  asked  Little  Liza  in  surprise.  "He 


160  Lance  Cleaverage 

said  he  was  going  to  plow  under  next  week,  and 
we  was  welcome  to  pick  what  we  could." 

Callista  drew  back  with  a  burning  face. 

"I  —  I  cain't  — "  she  began  faintly.  "You- 
all  girls  go  on.  I  cain't  leave  this  morning. 
They's  something  back  home  that  I  have  obliged 
to  tend  to." 

She  turned  and  fairly  ran  from  the  astonished 
women.  But  when  her  own  door  was  shut  behind 
her,  she  broke  down  in  tears.  A  vast,  unformu- 
lated  resentment  surged  in  her  heart  against  her 
young  husband.  She  would  not  have  forgone 
anything  of  that  charm  in  Lance  which  had 
tamed  her  proud  heart  and  fired  her  cold  fancy; 
but  she  bitterly  resented  the  lack  of  any  practi- 
cal virtue  a  more  phlegmatic  man  might  have 
possessed. 

She  shut  herself  in  her  own  house,  half  sullenly. 
Not  from  her  should  anyone  know  the  poor 
provider  her  man  was.  She  had  said  that  she 
would  not  go  home  without  a  gift  in  her  hand, 
she  had  bidden  mother  and  grandfather  to  take 
dinner  with  her  —  and  it  appeared  horrifyingly 
likely  that  there  might  hardly  be  dinner  for  them- 
selves, much  less  that  to  offer  a  guest.  Well, 
Lance  was  to  blame ;  let  him  look  to  it.  It  was  a 
man's  place  to  provide;  a  woman  could  only 
serve  what  was  provided.  With  that  she  would 
set  to  work  and  clean  all  the  cabin  over  in  furious 
zeal  —  forgetting  to  cook  the  scanty  supper  till 


Poverty  Pride  .161 

it  was  so  late  that  Lance,  coming  home,  had  to 
help  her  with  it. 

Things  looked  their  worst  when,  one  morning, 
little  Polly  Griever  came  running  up  from  the 
gulch,  panting  out  her  good  news. 

"Oh,  Callisty,  don't  you-all  want  to  come  over 
to  our  house?  The  sawgrum-makers  is  thar,  an* 
Poppy  Cleaverage  has  got  the  furnace  all  finished 
up,  and  Sylvane  and  him  was  a-haulin'  in  sawgrum 
from  the  field  yiste'dy  all  day." 

Sorghum-making  is  a  frolic  in  the  southern 
mountains,  somewhat  as  the  making  of  cider  is 
further  north. 

"Sure  we'll  come,  Polly,"  Callista  agreed 
promptly,  with  visions  of  the  jug  of  "long 
sweetening"  which  she  should  bring  home  with 
her  from  Father  Cleaverage's  and  the  good  dinner 
they  should  get  that  day. 

"Whose  outfit  did  Pappy  hire?"  asked  Lance 
from  the  doorstep  where  he  was  working  over  a 
bit  of  rude  carpentry. 

"Flenton  Hands's,"  returned  the  child.  "A' 
Roxy  says  Flenton  drove  a  awful  hard  bargain 
with  Poppy  Cleaverage.  She  says  Flenton  Hands 
is  a  hard  man  if  he  is  a  perfesser." 

Callista  laid  down  the  sunbonnet  she  had  taken  up . 

"I  reckon  we  cain't  go,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
of  keen  disappointment.  Anger  swelled  within 
her  at  Kimbro  for  having  dealings  with  the  man 
against  whom  Lance's  challenge  was  out. 


162.  Lance  Cleaverage 

"I  couldn't  'a'  gone  anyhow,  Callista,"  Lance 
told  her.  "I  have  obliged  to  take  Sate  and  Sin 
down  to  the  Settlement  and  see  what  kind  of  a 
trade  I  can  make  to  winter  'em;  but  there's  no 
need  of  your  staying  home  on  my  accounts." 

Callista  looked  down  at  his  tousled  head  and 
intent  face  as  he  worked  skilfully.  Was  he  so 
willing  to  send  her  where  she  would  meet  Flenton 
Hands  ?  For  a  moment  she  was  hurt  —  then 
angry. 

"Come  on,  Polly,"  she  said,  catching  up  sun- 
bonnet  and  basket,  and  stepping  past  Lance, 
sweeping  his  tools  all  into  a  heap  with  her  skirts. 

"  I  don't  know  what  Father  Cleaverage  was 
thinking  of  to  have  Flenton  on  the  place  after  all 
that's  been,"  Callista  said  more  to  herself  than 
the  child,  when  they  had  passed  through  the 
gate.  Her  breakfast  had  been  a  failure,  and  she 
was  reflecting  with  great  satisfaction  on  how  good 
a  cook  Roxy  Griever  was ;  yet  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  forbear  going  to  any  place  where  the 
man  her  husband  had  threatened  was  to  be  met. 

Polly  came  close  and  thrust  a  brown  claw  into 
Callista's  hand,  galloping  unevenly  and  making 
rather  a  difficult  walking  partner,  but  showing 
her  good  will. 

"Hit  don't  make  no  differ  so  long  as  Cousin 
Lance  won't  be  thar,"  she  announced  wisely. 
"Cousin  Lance  always  did  make  game  of  Flent. 
He  said  that  when  Flent  took  up  a  collection  in 


Poverty  Pride  163 

church,  he  hollered  'amen'  awful  loud  to  keep 
folks  from  noticin'  that  he  didn't  put  nothin'  in  the 
hat  hisse'f .  I  wish't  Lance  was  comin'  'long  of  us." 

With  this  the  two  of  them  dipped  into  the  gay, 
rustling  gloom  of  the  autumn-tinted  gulch,  with 
Lance's  Laurel  reduced  to  a  tiny  trickle  between 
clear  little  pools,  gurgling  faintly  in  the  bottom. 

Before  they  came  to  the  Cleaverage  place  they 
heard  the  noise  of  the  sorghum  making.  A  team 
was  coming  in  from  the  field  with  a  belated  load 
of  the  stalks,  which  should  have  been  piled  in  place 
yesterday;  Ellen  Hands  and  Little  Liza  appeared 
down  the  lane  carrying  between  them  a  jug  swung 
from  a  stick  —  everybody  that  comes  to  help 
takes  toll. 

When  Callista  arrived,  half-a-dozen  were  busy 
over  the  work ;  Hands  feeding  the  crusher,  Sylvane 
waiting  on  him  with  bundles  of  the  heavy,  rich 
green  stalks,  and  Buck  Fuson  driving  the  solemn 
old  horse  his  jogging  round,  followed  by  fat  little 
Mary  Ann  Martha,  capering  along  with  a  stick 
in  her  hand,  imitating  his  every  movement  and 
shout. 

The  rollers  set  on  end  which  crushed  the  jade- 
green  stalks  were  simply  two  peeled  hardwood 
logs.  Flenton  had  threatened  for  years  to  bring 
in  a  steel  crusher;  but,  up  to  the  present,  the 
machine  his  grandfather  made  had  been  found 
profitable.  The  absinthe-colored  juice  ran  down 
its  little  trough  into  a  barrel,  whence  it  was  dipped 


1 64  Lance  Cleaverage 

to  the  evaporating  pan,  about  which  centered  the 
hottest  of  the  fray.  In  the  stone  furnace  under 
this  great,  shallow  pan  —  as  long  and  broad, 
almost,  as  a  wagon-bed  —  old  Kimbro  himself 
was  keeping  a  judgmatic  fire  going.  Roxy  Griever, 
qualified  by  experience  with  soap  and  apple-butter, 
circled  the  fire  and  kept  up  a  continual  skimming 
of  froth  from  the  bubbling  juice,  while  she  did 
not  lack  for  advice  to  her  father  concerning  his 
management  of  the  fire. 

Flenton  handed  over  to  Fuson  his  work  at  the 
crusher,  calling  Polly  to  mind  the  horse,  and  came 
straight  to  Callista. 

"  I'm  mighty  proud  to  see  that  you  don't  feel 
obliged  to  stay  away  from  a  place  becaze  I'm 
thar,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  tone,  and  she  fancied 
a  flicker  of  fear  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  questioned 
whether  her  husband  might  be  expected  to  follow. 

"Lance  was  a-goin'  down  to  the  Settlement 
to-day,"  she  said  bluntly,  "and  I'd  have  been  all 
alone  anyhow;  so  I  'lowed  I  might  as  well  come 
over." 

Hands  looked  relieved. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  hold  it  against  me, 
Callisty,"  he  went  on  in  a  hurried  half  whisper, 
"that  Lance  is  namin'  it  all  around  that  this 
here  scope  o'  country  ain't  big  enough  to  hold  him 
and  me." 

Callista  shook  her  fair  head  in  a  proud  negative. 

"  I've  got  my  doubts  of  Lance  ever  having  said 


Poverty  Pride  165 

any  such,"  she  returned  quietly.  "  Yo'  name  has 
never  been  mentioned  between  us,  Flent;  but 
if  Lance  has  a  quarrel,  he's  mighty  apt  to  go  to 
the  person  he  quarrels  with,  and  not  make  threats 
behind  they'  back.  I  think  little  of  them  that 
brought  you  such  word  as  that." 

"That's  just  what  I  say,"  Hands  pursued 
eagerly.  "Why  can't  we-all  be  friends,  like 
we  used  to  be.  Here's  Mr.  Cleaverage  that  don't 
hold  with  no  sech,"  and  he  turned  to  include 
Kimbro,  who  now  came  up  to  greet  his  daughter- 
in-law.  Again  Callista  shook  her  head. 

"  You  men'll  have  to  settle  them  things  betwixt 
yourselves,"  she  said,  sure  of  her  ground  as  a 
mountain  woman.  "  But,  Flent,  I  reckon  you'll 
have  to  keep  in  mind  that  a  man  and  his  wife  are 
one." 

"Oh,"  said  Hands  dropping  back  a  step,  "so 
if  Lance  won't  be  friendly  with  me,  you  won't 
neither  —  is  that  it?" 

"  I  should  think  yo'  good  sense  would  show  you 
that  that  would  have  to  be  it,"  said  Callista 
doggedly.  She  had  no  wish  to  appear  as  one 
submitting  to  authority,  and  yet  Flenton's  evi- 
dent intention  of  seeking  to  find  some  breach 
between  herself  and  Lance  was  too  offensive  t6  be 
borne  with. 

"Now  then,  why  need  we  talk  of  such  this 
morning?"  pacified  Kimbro.  "My  son  Lance  is  a 
good  boy  when  you  take  him  right.  He's  got  a 


Lance  Cleaverage 

tender  heart.  If  he  ever  quarrels  too  easy,  he 
gets  over  it  easy,  as  well.  Flenton,  you'll  have  to 
tend  to  the  crusher;  I  got  to  keep  the  fire  goin' 
for  Roxy. 

"  Hit  'minds  me  of  that  thar  lake  that  it  names 
in  the  Bible,  Callisty,"  the  Widow  Griever  said 
meditatively,  looking  at  the  seething  surface  as 
she  wielded  her  long-handled  spoon.  "And  then 
sometimes  I  study  about  that  thar  fiery  furnace 
and  Ham,  Sham  and  Abednego.  Poppy,  looks 
like  to  me  you  ain't  got  fire  enough  under  this 
eend." 

"I've  just  made  it  up  there,"  said  Kimbro 
mildly.  "  I  go  from  one  end  to  the  other,  steady, 
and  that  keeps  it  as  near  even  as  human  hands 
air  able  to'." 

"Flenton,  he  was  mighty  overreachin'  with 
Poppy,"  the  widow  lamented.  "He's  a  mighty 
hard-hearted  somebody  to  deal  with,  if  he  is  a 
perfesser,  and  one  that  walks  the  straight  an' 
narrer  way.  Poppy  has  to  furnish  all  the  labor, 
'ceptin'  Flent  and  Buck  Fuson,  and  we've  got  to 
feed  them  men  and  their  team,  and  then  they  git 
one  third  of  the  molasses.  With  three  meals  a 
day,  an'  snacks  between  times  to  keep  up  they' 
stren'th,  looks  like  I  never  see  nobody  eat  what 
them  two  can." 

The  gray  little  cabin  crouched  in  a  corner  of  the 
big  yard ;  a  shed  roof,  running  down  at  one  side  of 
it,  looking  comically  like  a  hand  raised  to  shut  out 


Poverty  Pride  167 

the  clamor.  Everybody  shouted  his  opinion  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  Nobody  thought  anybody 
else  was  doing  just  what  he  ought.  Roxana 
hurried  from  group  to  group  of  the  workers, 
advising,  admonishing,  trying  to  bring  some 
order  out  of  the  confusion.  And  in  the  midst  of 
it,  Callista  watched  the  bubbling  juice  enviously. 
It  seemed  everybody  had  something  to  harvest, 
care  for  and  put  away,  except  herself. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

LONG  SWEETENIN'. 

MARY  ANN  MARTHA  GRIEVER  was 
notorious  all  over  the  Big  and  Little  Turkey 
Track  neighborhoods,  as  "the  worst  chap  the 
Lord  A 'mighty  ever  made  and  the  old  davil 
himself  wouldn't  have."  The  mildest  dictum 
pronounced  upon  her  was  "Spiled  rotten."  Her 
energy,  her  unsleeping  industry,  would  have  been 
things  to  admire  and  wonder  at,  had  they  not 
been  always  applied  to  the  futherance  of  iniquitous 
ends.  To-day  she  pervaded  the  sorghum-making, 
not  like  a  gnat,  but  like  a  whole  swarm  of  gnats. 
Providing  herself  with  a  weak-backed  switch,  she 
followed  the  movements  of  Fuson,  or  Polly,  or 
Sylvane,  whichever  chanced  to  be  told  off  to  tend 
the  old  horse.  She  pursued  the  beast  with  a 
falsetto  screech  of  peculiar  malignance,  and 
tickled  his  heels  with  her  switch  whenever  the 
exigencies  of  the  work  forced  his  stoppage.  To 
the  infinite  surprise  of  everybody,  notably  his 
owner,  the  gaunt  sorrel,  after  looking  around  and 
twitching  his  ears  and  hide  as  though  a  particu- 
larly troublesome  flock  of  flies  were  on  him, 
finally  heaved  up  the  whole  after  portion  of  his 
anatomy  in  one  elephantine  kick,  which  very 

1 68 


Long  Sweetenin'  169 

nearly  cost  his  small  tormentor  the  entire  top 
of  her  head. 

Chased  away  from  the  horse  and  the  crusher, 
Mary  Ann  Martha  turned  her  attention  to  the 
furnace,  with  its  more  seductive  and  saccharine 
activities.  The  skimming  hole  on  this  occasion 
was  not  the  small,  ordinary  excavation  made  for 
the  purpose,  but  a  sizable  pit,  dug  at  some  previ- 
ous time  for  a  forgotten  use.  Brush  had  been 
thrown  into  it,  vines  had  grown  and  tangled  over 
the  brush,  till  it  was  a  miniature  jungle  or  bear- 
pit.  Tin  cans  hid  among  the  leafage,  and  the 
steady  drip-drip  of  the  skimmings  pattered  on 
one  of  these  hollowly.  This  spot  had  a  peculiar 
fascination  for  the  child.  Perched  on  its  edge 
she  thrust  forward  her  face  and  attempted  to  lick 
a  branch  over  which  the  skimmings  had  trickled 
deliciously.  The  distance  was  considerable.  Mary 
Ann  Martha's  tongue  was  limber  and  amazingly 
extensible ;  her  balance  excellent ;  but  also  she  was 
in  unseemly  haste  for  the  syrup  that  stood  in 
great  drops  just  beyond  reach.  In  her  contor- 
tions, she  overbalanced  herself  and  fell  shrieking 
in,  going  promptly  to  the  bottom,  where  quite  a 
pool  of  sticky  sour-sweetness  had  already  collected. 

"The  good  land!"  shouted  Roxy,  passing  the 
ladle  of  office  to  Callista  and  reaching  down  to 
grab  for  her  offspring.  "If  they's  anything  you 
ort  not  to  be  in,  of  course  you're  in  it.  Now  look 
at  you!"  she  ejaculated,  as  she  hauled  the  squall- 


I7°  Lance  Cleaverage 

ing  child  out  dripping.  "You  ain't  got  another 
frock  to  yo'  name,  an'  what  am  I  a-goin'  to  do 
with  you?" 

Mary  Ann  Martha  showed  a  blissful  indiffer- 
ence to  what  might  be  done  with  her.  Her 
howls  ceased  abruptly.  She  found  her  state  that 
agreeable  one  wherein  she  was  able  to  lick  almost 
any  portion  of  her  anatomy  or  her  costume  with 
satisfaction. 

"Don't  want  no  other  frock,"  she  announced 
briefly,  as  she  sat  down  in  the  dust  to  begin 
clearing  her  hands  of  skimmings,  very  like  a 
puppy  or  a  kitten. 

"Well,  I'm  a-goin'  to  put  boy  clothes  on  you," 
declared  the  mother.  "You  act  as  bad  as  a  boy." 
And  she  hustled  the  protesting  delinquent  away 
to  execute  her  threat. 

Five  minutes  after,  burning  with  wrongs,  Mary 
Ann  Martha  came  stormily  forth  to  rejoin  her 
kind,  pent  in  a  tight  little  jeans  suit  which  had 
belonged  to  the  babyhood  of  Sylvane,  and  from 
which  her  solid  limbs  and  fat,  tubby  body  seemed 
fairly  exploding.  Humiliated,  alienated,  and  with 
her  hand  against  every  man,  she  lowered  upon 
them  all  from  under  flaxen  brows,  with  Lance's 
own  hazel  eyes,  darkened  almost  to  black. 

"You  Ma'y-Ann-Marth',"  admonished  Fuson, 
as  the  small  marauder  raided  the  cooling  pans  and 
licked  the  spoons  and  testing  sticks  so  soon  as  they 
were  laid  down,  "you  got  to  walk  mighty  keerful 


Long  Sweetenin' 

around  where  I'm  at,  at  least  in  sawgrum-makin' 
time." 

Mary  Ann  Martha  held  down  her  head,  and 
muttered.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  trousers  as 
only  a  mountain-born  girl  child  could  be  ashamed. 

"You  let  them  spoons  alone,  or  I'll  fling  you 
plumb  into  the  bilin'-pan,  whar  you'll  git  a-plenty 
o'  sawgrum,"  Fuson  threatened.  "You  hear 
now?  The  last  man  I  he'ped  Hands  make  saw- 
grum for  had  ten  chillen  when  we  begun.  They 
set  in  to  pester  me  an'  old  Baldy  jest  like  yo' 
adoin',  and  when  we  got  done  thar  was  ten  kaigs 
of  sawgrum  and  nary  chap  on  the  place.  Yes, 
that's  right.  Ef  thar  wasn't  a  chap  bar'lled  up  in 
every  kaig  we  turned  out,  I  don't  know  sawgrum 
from  good  red  liquor." 

Inside  the  house,  Ellen  Hands  and  Little  Liza 
were  delaying  over  an  errand.  They  had  brought 
a  piece  of  turkey  red  calico  as  an  offering  for  the 
gospel  quilt. 

"Don't  you  trouble  to  git  it  out,"  Little  Liza 
said,  rather  wistfully.  "  I  know  in  reason  you've 
got  all  on  yo'  hands  you  want  this  mornin' ;  but 
when  you  come  to  workin'  it  in,  Ellen  an'  me  we 
talked  considerable  consarning  of  it,  and  mebbe 
we  could  he'p  ye." 

"Callisty's  a-skimmin',"  announced  the  widow, 
running  for  a  hasty  glance  toward  the  sorghum- 
making  activities.  "Hit  won't  take  me  mo'n  a 
minute  to  spread  the  thing  here  on  the  bed,  and 


Lance  Cleaverage 

try  this  agin  it.  Land !  ain't  that  pretty?  Red — 
I  always  did  love  red." 

The  cherished  square  was  lifted  from  its  chest, 
unrolled,  and  spread  upon  the  four-poster  bed 
in  the  corner  of  the  living  room. 

"You  been  a-workin'  on  it  some  sence  last  I 
seed  it,"  Ellen  Hands  remarked  with  interest. 
"  This  here  thing  with  birds  a-roostin'  on  it  —  I 
ain't  never  seed  this  before." 

"That  thar's  Jacob's  Ladder,  Ellen  —  don't 
you  see  the  postes,  and  the  pieces  a-goin'  acrost?" 
Roxy  explained  rather  hastily.  "  Lord,  the  trouble 
I  had  with  them  angels.  I  don't  wonder  you 
took  'em  for  birds.  Time  and  again  I  had  a  mind 
to  turn  'em  into  birds.  I  done  fine  with  Noey's 
dove ;  see,  here  'tis ;  an'  a  ark  —  well,  hit  ain't  no 
more  than  a  house  with  a  boat  un'neath." 

She  pulled  the  folds  about,  to  get  at  the  period 
of  the  deluge. 

"  'Course  I  see  now  jest  what  it  was  intentioned 
for,"  Ellen  professed  eagerly.  "If  I'd  looked 
right  good  I  could  'a'  made  out  the  angels  goin' 
up  an'  down.  How"  -she  hesitated,  but  the 
resolve  to  retrieve  herself  overcame  all  timidity  — 
"how  nateral  them  loaves  an'  fishes  does  look!" 

"That  thar's  the  ark,"  explained  the  widow, 
putting  her  finger  on  the  supposed  loaf.  There 
was  a  moment  of  depressed  silence;  then  Roxy, 
willing  to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  observed, 

"Over  here  is  the   whale  and  Joney."     These 


Long  Sweetenin'  I73 

twin  objects  were  undoubtedly  what  Ellen  had 
taken  for  the  fishes. 

"Ye  see  I  had  to  make  the  whale  some  littler 
than  life,"  the  artist  deprecated.  "I  sort  o' 
drawed  him  in,  as  a  body  may  say,  'caze  'course  I 
couldn't  git  him  all  on  my  quilt  without.  I 
didn't  aim  to  git  Joney  quite  so  big,  but  that  thar 
sprigged  percale  that  he's  made  outen  was  so 
pretty,  and  the  piece  I  had  was  just  that  length, 
an'  I  hated  to  throw  away  what  wouldn't  be 
good  for  anything,  an'  I'd  already  got  my  whale, 
so  I  sort  o'  len'thened  the  beast's  tail  with  a  few 
stitches.  Would  you  call  a  whale  a  beast  or  a 
fish?" 

"Well,  I  should  sure  call  anything  that  could 
swaller  a  man  a  beast,"  opined  Little  Liza. 

"An'  yit  he's  sorter  built  like  a  fish,"  suggested 
Ellen. 

"That's  true;  an'  he  lives  in  the  water," 
admitted  her  sister. 

"Here's  a  right  good  big  open  place,"  observed 
Ellen.  "Ef  you  was  a-goin'  to  make  —  what- 
ever —  out  of  that  turkey  red,  hit  could  come  in 
here." 

"It  could  that,"  said  the  widow  thoughtfully. 
"Did  you-all  have  any  idee  as  to  what  it  would 
suit  best  for?" 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  in  embarrassment. 
As  unmarried  women,  the  subject  that  they  had 
discussed  was  in  some  degree  questionable. 


174  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Well,  hit's  in  the  Bible,"  Ellen  began  defen- 
sively. "An*  yit — Sis'  an'  me  didn't  know 
whether  you'd  care  to  —  to  give  room  to  sech  as 
the  Scarlet  Woman." 

It  was  out.  The  idea  evidently  fascinated 
Roxy. 

"That  turkey  red  shore  fits  the  case,"  she 
agreed  with  gusto.  "As  you  say,  hit's  in  the  Bible. 
An'  yit,  anything  that's,  what  a  body  might  call 
ondecent  that-a-way —  don't  ye  reckon  a  person'd 
be  sort  o'  'shamed  to  —  I  vow!  I'll  do  it." 

"Oh,  Miz.  Griever!"  exclaimed  Little  Liza  of 
comical  dismay  at  the  prompt  acceptance  in 
their  idea.  "  I  believe  I  wouldn't.  There's  the 
crossin'  o'  the  Red  Sea;  you  could  use  the  turkey 
red  for  that  jest  as  easy." 

But  the  widow  shook  her  head. 

"Good  lands!"  she  cried,  "what  you  studyin' 
about,  Liza?  I  say,  the  crossin'  o'  the  Red  Sea! 
I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  no  sech  a  thing.  Hit  'd  take 
me  forever  to  cut  out  all  them  Chillen  of  Is 'nil. 
And  I  never  in  the  world  would  git  done  makin' 
Egyptians !  No,  that  turkey  red  goes  into  a  scar- 
let woman  —  to  reprove  sin." 

"Laws,  Miz.  Griever,"  began  Ellen  Hands, 
solemnly,  "looks  like  yo'  family  ort  to  be  perfectly 
happy  with  that  thar  quilt  in  the  house.  I'm 
mighty  shore  I  would  be.  I  tell  you,  sech  a  work 
as  that  is  worth  a  woman's  while." 

"There's  them  that  thinks  different,"  responded 


Long  Sweetenin'  X75 

Roxy,  with  a  sort  of  gloomy  yet  relishing  resent- 
ment. "There  has  been  folks  lived  in  this  house 
from  the  time  I  started  work  on  it,  an'  made 
game  of  my  gospel  quilt  —  made  game  of  it!" 

"I  reckon  I  know  who  you  mean,"  nodded 
Ellen.  And  Little  Liza  added,  "She's  here  to-day, 
ain't  she?  —  God  love  her  sweet  soul!  But  yo' 
pappy  wouldn't  bid  Lance,  with  Buddy  here  an' 
all  —  we  know  that.  They'd  be  shore  to  fuss. 
Man  persons  is  that-a-way." 

"Well,"  Ellen  Hands  summed  the  case  up,  "ef 
anybody  made  game  o'  that  quilt  to  my  face,  I'd 
never  forgive  'em." 

"I  never  will,"  agreed  Roxy.  "Them  that 
would  make  game  of  sech  is  blasphemious. 
Mebbe  hit  ain't  adzactly  the  Bible,  but  hit's — " 

"  Hit's  mo'  so,"  put  in  Ellen  swiftly.  "The 
Bible  is  pertected  like,  but  yo'  gospel  quilt  is 
standin'  up  alone,  as  a  body  may  say,  and'  you've 
got  to  speak  for  it.  No,  ef  I  was  you,  and  anybody 
made  game  of  that  thar  quilt,  I  never  would 
forgive  'em." 

Outside,  Callista  stood  and  skimmed  and 
skimmed,  from  time  to  time  emptying  her  pan  into 
the  skimming-hole,  the  bland  October  breeze 
lifting  her  fair  hair.  Everything  was  sour-sweet 
and  sticky  from  the  juice.  Heaps  of  pomace  were 
already  beginning  to  pile  tall  beside  the  crusher, 
reeking,  odorous,  tempting  to  the  old  cow,  who 
went  protestingly  past,  and  had  the  bars  put  up 


Lance  Cleaverage 

after  her.  Kimbro  looked  up  from  his  task  and 
spoke  to  his  daughter-in-law. 

"You  look  sort  o'  peaked,  Callista,"  he  said 
gently.  "Air  you  right  well?" 

"Oh  yes,  Father  Cleaverage,"  she  returned, 
absently,  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Griever  and  the  Hands 
girls  approaching  from  the  house. 

The  unsexed  and  hostile  Mary  Ann  Martha 
turned  upon  the  world  at  large  a  look  of  mute 
defiance,  and  completed  an  enterprise  which  she 
had  set  up  of  laying  fresh  sorghum  stalks  side-by- 
side,  pavement-wise,  over  the  skimming-hole. 

Women  and  children  were  settling  like  flies 
about  the  pan  and  its  attendant  bowls,  ladles 
and  testing  plates,  hoping  for  a  taste  of  the 
finished  product.  The  Hands  girls  greeted  Callista 
and  joined  the  others.  Fuson's  poor  little  seven- 
teen-year-old sister-in-law  was  there  with  her 
six  months  baby,  and  a  child  of  two.  Roxy 
took  the  skimmer  from  Callista  and  set  to  work. 
Sylvane  relieved  his  father  at  the  firing.  Mary 
Ann  Martha  sidled  into  the  house,  whence,  a 
moment  later,  came  a  shrill  cry  in  Polly's  thin 
little  pipe. 

"Aunt  Roxy!  Mary  Ann  Marthy's  in  here 
puttin'  molasses  all  over  yo'  gospel  quilt!" 

"Good  land!"  snorted  Roxy,  straightening  up 
from  her  task  of  skimming.  "Take  the  spoon, 
Sylvane."  She  cast  the  ladle  toward  him  without 
much  care  as  to  whether  the  handle  or  the  bowl 


Long  Sweetenin'  X77 

went  first.  "Looks  like  I  do  have  the  hardest 
time  o'  anybody  I  know,"  she  ejaculated. 

"You  better  git  here  quick,  A'  Roxy,"  Polly 
urged.  "She's  just  a  wipin'  her  spoon  on  em'." 

"Ain't,"  protested  the  infant,  appearing  sud- 
denly in  the  doorway,  a  "trying  spoon"  in  her 
hand,  over  which  she  was  running  her  tongue 
with  gusto.  "  I  thest  give  a  lick  o'  long-sweetnin' 
to  Eads, "  thus  she  named  the  first  of  womankind. 
"Po'  old  Eads  looked  so-o-o  hongry." 

"She's  done  a  heap  more'n  that, "  Polly  main- 
tained. Mary  Ann  Martha's  mouth  began  to 
work  piteously. 

"Give  Eads  some,"  she  pursued  in  a  husky, 
explanatory  voice.  "An'  —  th' —  ol'  snake 
licked  out  his  tongue,  and  I  must  put  a  teenchy- 
weenchy  bit  on  it.  "  'Nen  Adams,  he's  mad  'caze 
he  don't  git  none ;  an' —  Mammy,"  with  a  burst  of 
tears,  "is  I  thest  like  my  uncle  Lance?" 

She  had  heard  this  formula  of  reproof  so  often ; 
she  knew  so  well  that  it  befitted  the  gravest 
crimes. 

"You  air  that!"  said  Roxy  wrathfully.  "You 
little  dickens!  I  don't  know  of  anybody  in  this 
world  that  would  have  done  sech  a  trick  —  but 
you  or  Lance  Cleaverage." 

She  wheeled  from  the  furnace  toward  the 
house,  and  set  a  swift  foot  in  the  middle  of  the 
sorghum-stalk  pavement  Mary  Ann  Martha  had 
laid  over  the  skimming  pit.  The  stalks  gave. 


178  Lance  Cleaverage 

She  attempted  to  recover  herself  and  have  back 
the  foot,  but  her  momentum  was  too  great.  On 
she  plunged,  pitching  and  rolling,  descending  by 
degrees  and  with  ejaculatory  whoops  among  the 
sticky  sweetness,  part  of  which  was  still  uncom- 
fortably warm. 

There  was  a  treble  chorus  of  dismay  from  the 
women.  Sylvane  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  ran  to 
the  pit's  edge.  Buck  Fuson  held  his  sides  and 
roared  with  mirth,  and  Flenton  Hands  stopped 
the  crusher  by  tying  up  his  horse  so  that  he 
too,  might  go  to  their  assistance. 

"Oh  land!"  gasped  the  widow,  coming  to  the 
surface,  yellow  and  gummy  of  countenance, 
smudged  and  smeared,  crowned  with  a  tipsy 
wreath  of  greenery,  like  a  sorghumnal  bacchante. 
"  I  believe  in  my  soul  that  little  sinner  aimed  to 
do  this.  She's  jest  adzactly  like  her  Uncle  Lance 
-that's  what  she  is!  I  mind  —  ow!"  The 
rotten  branch  under  her  foot  had  snapped,  letting 
her  down  into  a  squelching  pool  of  skimmings. 

"Take  hold  of  my  hand,  Sis'  Roxy "  cried 
Sylvane.  "No,  I  don't  reckon  the  baby  aimed 
to  make  trouble;  chaps  is  always  doin'  things 
like  this,  an'  meanin'  no  harm.  There  —  now 
I've  got  you." 

But  Roxy  was  a  big  woman,  and  the  first  pull 
nearly  dragged  him  in. 

"Let  me  ketch  ye  round  the  waist,  Sylvane!" 
roared  Little  Liza  in  her  fog-horn  bass.  "Ellen, 


Long  Sweetenin'  179 

you  hold  to  my  coats,  and  let  the  others  hang  on 
to  you,  if  they  have  to.  Thar,  now,  pull,  Sylvane ; 
try  it  agin  —  now,  all  of  you  —  pull !  "  And  with 
a  tremendous  scrabbling  and  scrambling,  the 
Widow  Griever  "came,"  hurtling  up  from  her 
sweet  retreat  and  spattering  molasses  on  her 
rescuers. 

Over  went  Sylvane  and  Little  Liza;  Ellen  and 
slim  Lula  Fuson  were  nearly  dragged  down  by 
their  fall.  Roxy  Griever  landed  on  top  of  the 
first  two,  and  liberally  besmeared  them  all  with 
sorghum  juice  before  they  could  be  got  to  their 
feet. 

"You  let  me  lay  hand  on  that  young  'un,"  she 
panted,  "  and  I'll  not  leave  her  fitten  to  do  such  as 
this." 

"Never  mind,  Ma'y-Ann-Marth',"  Little  Liza 
admonished.  "You  git  in  and  git  yo'se'f  washed 
up.  For  the  good  land's  sake  —  ef  thar  don't 
come  Miz.  Gentry  an'  her  pa  down  the  road! 
Mak'  'as'e ! "  And  the  sorghum  bespattered  women 
hurried  toward  the  house,  the  widow  still  ful- 
minating threats,  the  Hands  girls  giggling  a  bit.' 
Callista,  trying  to  carry  forward  their  part  of  the 
work,  saw  that  a  team  stopped  out  in  front.  She 
was  aware  of  her  grandfather  on  the  driver's  seat, 
and  her  mother  climbing  down  over  the  wheel. 

"  Well,  Callista,"  complained  the  matron,  mak- 
ing straight  for  the  side  yard  and  her  daughter, 
"  I  reckon  if  I  want  to  see  my  own  child,  I  can  go  to 


180  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  neighbors  and  see  her  there.  Why  ain't  you 
been  home,  honey  ?  Pappy  axes  every  morning  air 
you  comin',  and  every  night  I  have  to  tell  him, 
'  Well,  mebbe  to-morrow." 

Callista  looked  over  her  mother's  shoulder,  and 
fancied  that  she  caught  a  gleam  of  grim  amuse- 
ment in  old  Ajax's  eye. 

"I've  been  mighty  busy,"  she  said  evasively. 
"  Looks  like  I  don't  finish  one  thing  before  another 
needs  doing.  I'm  a-comin'  one  of  these  days." 

"So's  Christmas,"  jeered  her  grandfather  from 
the  wagon. 

Callista  remembered  the  last  time  her  home- 
coming had  been  discussed  with  him.  Her  color 
deepened  and  her  eye  brightened. 

"Yes,  and  I'm  comin'  same  as  Christmas  with 
both  hands  full  of  gifts,"  she  called  out  to  him 
gaily.  How  dared  he  look  like  that  —  as  though 
he  knew  all  her  straits  —  the  shifts  to  which  she 
was  now  reduced  ? 

There  had  sounded  from  the  house,  on  Roxy's 
arrival  there,  wails  of  lamentation  in  Mary  Ann 
Martha's  voice  —  wails  so  strident  and  so  offen- 
sively prolonged  as  to  convince  the  least  dis- 
criminating hearer  that  their  author  was  not 
being  hurt,  but  was  only  incensed.  Now,  Roxy 
Griever,  hastily  washed,  made  her  appearance. 

"  I'm  mighty  proud  to  have  you  here  to-day,  Miz. 
Gentry,"  she  said  hospitably.  "Won't  you  come 
into  the  house?  Have  you-all  fixed  for  pumpkin 


Long  Sweetenin*  181 

cutting?  I  just  as  soon  as  not  come  over  and 
he'p  you,  oncet  I  git  this  mis'able  sawgrum  out  of 
the  way." 

"Thank  you,  Miz.  Griever,  I  won't  go  in  for  a 
spell  yet,"  Octavia  said,  seating  herself  on  a  bench. 
"  No,  we  ain't  had  a  chance  to  think  o'  pumpkin- 
cuttin'.  I  been  dryin'  fruit.  And  Pappy's  had 
everybody  on  the  place  busy  pickin'  field  peas." 

Callista  harkened  restively  to  this  talk  of  the 
harvest  activities,  the  season's  plenty  —  she  who 
had  nothing  to  garner,  nothing  to  prepare  and  put 
away.  She  heard  her  mother's  voice  running 
plaintively  on. 

"Looks  like  I  got  to  have  somebody  with  me, 
since  Sis  is  gone.  I've  been  aimin'  to  git  over  to 
the  Far  Cove  neighborhood  where  my  cousin 
Filson  Luster  lives.  I  know  in  reason  Fil  could 
spare  one  of  his  gals,  an'  I'd  do  well  by  her." 

The  words  were  softly,  drawlingly,  spoken,  yet 
Callista,  mechanically  working  still  about  the 
furnace,  heard  in  them  the  slam  of  a  door.  Her 
girlhood  home  was  closed  to  her.  The  daughter's 
place  there,  which  she  had  held  so  lightly,  would 
be  filled. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

WHAT    SHALL    HE    HAVE    WHO    KILLED    THE    DEER? 

WINTER  was  upon  the  cabin  in  the  Gap. 
Through  the  long  months  much  bitter 
knowledge  had  come  to  Callista.  She  found 
that  she  knew  nothing  a  mountain  wife  ought 
to  know.  Finically  clean  about  her  housekeep- 
ing, she  spent  days  scouring,  rubbing,  putting 
to  rights  and  rearranging  that  which  none  used, 
nobody  came  to  see;  but  she  could  not  cook 
acceptably,  and  their  scant  fare  suffered  in 
her  inept  hands  till  she  nearly  starved  them 
both. 

Here,  with  some  show  of  reason,  she  blamed  her 
mother.  Having  never  seen  the  time  when  she 
could  go  back  to  the  Gentry  place  with  a  gift  in  her 
hand,  she  had  not  been  there  at  all  since  her 
marriage.  And  here  she  blamed  Lance.  Between 
her  incapacity  and  his  earlier  recklessness,  they 
were  desperately  pinched.  The  season  for  hauling 
closed  even  sooner  than  he  had  feared.  After  it 
was  past,  he  got  a  bit  of  work  now  and  again,  often 
walking  long  distances  to  it,  since  he  had  been 
obliged,  as  he  had  foreseen,  to  leave  Satan  and 
Cindy  in  the  Settlement;  and  when  the  black 
horses  came  no  more  to  the  log  stable  behind  the 

182 


Who  killed  the  Deer?  183 

cabin,  Callista  accepted  it  as  the  first  open  con- 
fession of  defeat. 

Lance  was  one  who  sought  a  medicine  for  his 
spiritual  hurts  with  as  sure  an  instinct  as  that  by 
which  the  animals  medicate  their  bodies,  creep- 
ing away  like  them  to  have  the  pain  and  wounding 
out  alone.  With  the  first  cold  weather  he  was 
afoot,  his  long  brown  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm, 
tramping  the  ridges  for  game.  The  wide,  silent 
spaces  spoke  restf  ully  to  his  spirit.  Half  the  time  he 
left  the  cabin  ill  provided  with  firewood  and  other 
necessities,  but  he  brought  back  rabbits,  quail,  an 
occasional  possum  —  which  latter  Callista  despised 
and  refused  to  cook,  even  when  Lance  had  care- 
fully prepared  it,  so  that  the  dogs  got  it  for  their 
share.  The  undercurrent  of  the  material  struggle 
to  make  a  living  was  always  the  pitiful  duel  between 
these  two,  who  really  loved  well,  and  who  were 
striving  as  much  each  for  the  mastery  of  self, 
as  for  the  mastery  of  the  other,  could  they  but 
have  realized  it. 

In  late  November,  the  days  began  to  break  with 
a  thin,  piercing  sleet  in  the  air,  under  an  even 
gray  sky.  On  the  brown  sedge,  dry  as  paper,  it 
whispered,  whispered  through  the  clinging  white- 
oak  leaves,  with  a  sharp  sibilance,  as  of  one  who 
draws  breath  at  the  end  of  a  pageant ;  for  the  last 
flickerings  of  the  gold  and  glory  of  Autumn  were 
gone;  the  radiance  and  warmth  and  beauty  of 
life  all  circled  now  around  a  hearth-stone. 


1 84  Lance  Cleaverage 

"If  we  get  much  more  weather  like  this,  I'll  go 
out  and  bring  ye  in  a  deer,"  Lance  told  his  Callista ; 
"then  we'll  have  fresh  meat  a-plenty." 

"Well,  see  that  there's  firewood  enough  to 
cook  your  deer  after  you've  killed  it,"  Callista 
retorted,  resentfully  mindful  of  Lance's  having 
forgotten  to  provide  her  with  sufficient  fuel  the 
last  time  he  went  on  an  unsuccessful  hunting  trip. 

"You  don't  roast  a  deer  whole,"  Lance  told  her 
tolerantly.  "We'll  dry  some  of  the  meat,  and 
some  we'll  salt." 

To  Callista's  exacting,  practical  nature,  this 
figuring  on  the  disposal  of  a  deer  one  had  not  yet 
killed  was  exasperating.  She  wanted  Lance  to 
know  that  she  lacked  many  things  which  she 
should  have  had.  She  wished  him  plainly  to  admit 
that  he  ought  to  furnish  those  things,  and  that  he 
was  sorry  he  could  not.  She  had  a  blind  feeling 
that,  if  he  did  so,  it  would  in  a  measure  atone. 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  take  much  wood  to  cook  all 
the  deer  you  brought  home  last  time,"  she  said 
with  a  little  bitter  half -smile. 

Taunt  of  taunts  —  to  reproach  the  unsuccessful 
hunter  with  his  empty  bag!  Lance  was  not  one 
to  give  reasons  for  his  failure,  to  tell  of  the  long, 
hard  miles  he  had  tramped  on  an  unsuccessful 
quest.  He  merely  picked  up  his  gun  and  walked 
out  of  the  house  without  looking  to  right  or  left, 
leaving  his  young  wife  breathing  a  little  short, 
but  sure  of  herself. 


Who  killed  the  Deer?  185 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  could  find  good 
counsel  in  the  wild  to  which  he  fled.  This  morn- 
ing there  was  come  over  everything  a  blind  fog, 
which  was  gradually  thinning  a  little  with  the 
dawn,  showing  to  his  eyes,  where  it  lifted,  hundreds 
of  little  ripples  fleeing  across  the  pond  from  icy 
verge  to  verge,  with  a  mist  smoking  to  leeward. 
The  forest  swam  about  him  in  a  milky  haze ;  the 
trees  stood,  huge  silver  feathers,  soft  gray  against 
the  paler  sky,  their  coating  not  glassy,  like  real 
sleet,  but  a  white  fringe,  a  narrow  strip  of  wool, 
composed  of  the  finest  pointed  crystals,  along 
every  twig.  The  yard  grass,  as  he  crossed  it,  was 
a  fleece ;  the  weeds  by  the  garden  fence,  where  he 
vaulted  over,  a  cloud. 

Dulling  one  sense,  the  obscuring  fog  seemed  to 
muffle  all  others.  Lance  was  shut  in  a  little 
white  world  of  his  own,  that  moved  and  shifted 
about  him  as  he  went  forward.  In  his  heart  was 
the  beginning  of  self -distrust ;  a  very  small  begin- 
ning, which  he  cried  down  and  would  none  of ;  yet 
the  mood  sent  him  seeking  a  spot  he  had  not  seen 
for  months.  Straight  as  an  arrow  he  went  through 
the  forest,  guiding  himself  by  his  sense  of  direction 
alone,  since  he  could  neither  see  far  nor  recognize 
any  familiar  landmark  in  its  changed  guise. 

An  hour  after  he  and  Callista  had  parted  in  the 
kitchen  of  his  own  home,  he  was  before  that  outside 
cabin  of  the  Gentry  place,  at  whose  casement  he 
had  first  held  her  in  his  arms,  looking  up  at  the 


1 86  Lance  Cleaverage 

blank  square  of  closed  panes.  It  was  so  early  that 
none  of  the  household  was  yet  astir.  The  dogs 
knew  him,  and  made  no  clamorous  outcry.  Shut 
in  by  the  wavering  walls  of  mist  which  clung  and 
chilled,  he  stood  long  beneath  her  window,  staring 
fixedly  up  at  it.  Something  ominous  and  sym- 
bolic in  the  change  which  had  come  upon  the 
spot  since  he  last  stood  there,  checked  the  beating 
of  his  heart,  strive  as  he  might  to  reject  its  message. 
The  yard  grass,  green  and  lush  on  that  September 
night,  stood  stark,  dry,  white  wool;  the  bullace 
vine,  whose  trunk  had  borne  his  eager  love  up 
to  her  kiss,  gleamed  steel-like  along  its  twisted 
stems ;  the  sill  itself  was  a  bar  of  humid  ice.  All 
looked  bleak,  inhospitable,  forbidding;  the  place 
was  winter-smitten,  like  —  like  - 

Some  blind  rage  at  the  power  which  makes  us 
other  than  we  would  be,  which  gives  us  stones 
for  bread,  stirred  within  him.  He  shivered.  She 
was  not  there  now  —  she  was  at  home  in  his 
house  —  his  wife.  What  had  he  come  here  for? 
This  was  a  gun  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm  —  not  a 
banjo;  he  was  out  trying  to  find  some  wild  meat 
to  keep  them  alive.  She  was  waiting  at  home  to  — 
no,  not  in  the  gropings  of  his  own  mind,  would  he 
complain  too  bitterly  of  his  bride.  Heaven  knows 
what  the  disillusioning  was  when  Lance  found 
for  the  first  time  that  he  and  Callista  could 
seriously  quarrel  —  their  old  days  of  what  might 
be  termed  histrionic  bickerings  for  the  amusement 


Who  killed  the  Deer?  187 

of  an  audience,  he  had  put  aside,  as  of  no  portent. 
When  he  discovered  that  Callista  could  look  at 
him  with  actually  alien  eyes,  and  say  stinging 
things  in  an  even  tone,  the  boundaries  of  his 
island  drew  in  till  there  was  barely  room  for  his 
own  feet  amid  the  wash  of  estranging  waters. 
But  he  turned  resolutely  from  the  thought.  His 
concern  should  be  all  with  his  own  conduct,  his 
own  failings.  Callista  must  do  what  she  would 
do  —  and  he  would  play  up  to  the  situation  as 
best  he  might. 

Somebody  moved  in  the  house  and  called  one 
of  the  hounds.  He  laughed  at  himself  a  bit 
drearily,  and  struck  off  across  the  hill,  assured 
in  his  own  mind  that  he  had  merely  taken  this 
as  a  short  cut  to  the  glen  at  the  head  of  the  gulch, 
where  he  hoped  to  find  his  deer.  The  clean  winds 
of  Heaven  soothed  the  pain  that  throbbed  under 
his  careless  bearing.  He  had  not  been  five  hours 
afoot,  he  was  but  just  preparing  to  make  his  noon 
halt  and  eat  the  bit  of  cold  pone  in  his  pocket, 
when  he  was  ready  to  smile  whimsically  at  the 
ill-made,  ill-flavored  thing  and  decide  that  it 
would  be  "just  as  fillin',"  even  though  Callista 
had  not  yet  learned  the  bread -maker's  art. 

He  must  needs  consider  it  rare  good  luck  that  he 
found  a  deer  at  all ;  but  it  was  five  miles  from  home, 
in  the  breaks  of  Chestnut  Creek,  that  he  finally 
made  his  kill.  He  had  no  horse  to  carry  the  bulk 
of  wild  meat;  and,  in  his  pride  refusing  to  leave  a 


1 88  Lance  Cleaverage 

part  swung  up  out  of  harm's  way,  he  undertook 
to  pack  the  whole  deer  home  on  his  shoulder  — 
a  piece  of  exhausting,  heart-breaking  toil,  though 
the  buck  was  but  a  half-grown  one.  He  was  not 
willing  to  risk  the  loss  of  a  pound.  There  were 
no  antlers ;  but  he  would  make  Callista  a  pair  of 
moccasins  out  of  the  soft-tanned  skin.  Sunday 
he  was  due  at  old  man  Fuson's  for  a  couple  of 
days,  to  repair  a  chimney;  but,  come  Tuesday  or 
Wednesday,  he  would  return  and  be  ready  to 
look  after  the  venison.  It  ought  to  keep  so  long 
in  this  cold. 

Callista,  pent  indoors  all  day,  chained  to  dis- 
tasteful tasks  for  which  she  was  incompetent,  had 
not  won  to  as  serene  a  temper  as  her  mate.  She 
saw  him  approaching,  laden,  through  the  grove,  and 
hurried  into  the  cold,  closed  far  room  to  be  busy 
about  some  task  so  that  she  need  not  meet  him 
as  he  entered.  When  she  emerged,  he  had  skinned 
the  deer  and  hung  up  the  meat  safely  between 
two  trees,  and  was  already  washed  and  sitting 
in  the  chimney-corner.  His  clear  eyes  went 
swiftly  to  her  face  with  its  coldly  down-dropped 
lids.  The  man  who  can  bring  home  a  deer  and 
not  boast  of  it  has  self-control;  but  when  Lance 
noted  the  line  of  his  wife's  lips,  he  reached  for  his 
banjo  without  a  word,  and  began  to  hold  his 
communications  with  it. 

She  knelt  at  the  hearth  to  continue  her  supper 
preparations.  For  the  first  time  since  they  had 


Who  killed  the  Deer?  189 

quarreled,  she  wished  that  she  could  make  some 
advance  toward  a  reconciliation.  Yet  there  was 
Lance ;  look  at  him !  Head  thrown  back  a  little, 
chin  atilt,  his  eyes  almost  closed,  showing  a  bright 
line  under  the  shadowing  lash,  the  firelight  played 
on  her  husband's  face  and  painted  the  ghost  of  a 
flickering  smile  about  his  mouth  as  he  strummed 
lightly  on  the  strings.  Was  that  a  countenance 
asking  sympathy,  begging  for  quarter?  And 
listen  to  the  banjo;  it  was  no  wistful,  questing 
melody  of  "How  many  miles,  how  many  years?" 
now;  a  light,  jigging  dance-tune  rippled  under 
his  finger  ends.  Callista  wondered  angrily  if  he 
wished  he  were  at  Derf 's.  No  doubt  they  would  be 
dancing  there  to-night,  as  commonly  on  Saturday. 

Lance,  the  man  who  wouldn't  take  a  dare  from 
the  Lord  A'mighty  Himself,  answered  her  silence 
with  silence,  and  her  unconcern  with  a  forgetful- 
ness  so  vast  as  to  make  her  attitude  seem  act- 
ually resentful. 

By  and  by  she  called  him  to  supper,  and  when  he 
came  she  refused  to  eat,  dwelling  angrily  on  the 
thought  that  he  should  have  regarded  her  bidding 
as  an  overture  to  peace,  and  have  made  some 
answering  movement  himself. 

In  short,  she  was  not  yet  done  interrogating 
this  nature,  fascinating,  complex,  inscrutable,  to 
know  what  was  the  ultimate  point,  the  place  where 
he  would  cry  "Enough!" 

The  next  morning  saw  him  leaving  early  for 


190  Lance  Cleaverage 

Fuson's,  and  he  went  before  Callista  was  out  of 
bed.  When  she  rose,  she  looked  remorsefully  at 
the  tidy,  small  preparations  for  breakfast  which 
he  had  made.  It  suddenly  came  home  to  her  that, 
for  a  man  in  Lance's  situation,  the  marrying  of 
a  wholly  inept  wife  was  daily  tragedy.  She 
decided  that  she  would  learn,  that  she  would  try 
to  do  better;  and,  as  a  first  peace-offering,  she 
hurried  out  to  the  grove  and  possessed  herself  of 
Lance's  venison,  that  she  might  cure  and  prepare  it. 

After  she  had  dragged  the  big,  raw,  bloody 
thing  into  her  immaculate  kitchen,  she  felt  a  little 
sense  of  repulsion  at  it,  yet  her  good  intentions 
held  while  she  hacked  and  hewed  and  salted  and 
pickled,  on  some  vague  remembrance  of  what  she 
had  heard  her  grandfather  say  concerning  the 
curing  of  wild  meat.  It  was  noon  when  she  went 
into  the  other  room,  leaving  the  outer  door  open 
so  that  the  hound  carried  away  the  only  portion 
of  the  meat  which  she  had  left  fresh  for  immediate 
use.  Tired,  ready  to  cry,  she  consoled  herself 
with  the  reflection  that  there  was  plenty  remain- 
ing; she  could  freshen  a  piece  of  that  which  she 
had  salted,  for  Lance's  supper  when  he  should 
return.  For  herself,  she  felt  that  she  should 
never  want  to  taste  venison  again. 

Under  her  handling  the  meat  deteriorated 
rapidly,  and  was  in  danger  of  becoming  an  uneat- 
able mess.  At  last  she  turned  a  weary  and  dis- 
gusted back  upon  it,  and  left  it  soaking  in  weak 


Who  killed  the  Deer  ?  19* 

brine.  Ever  since  Saturday  night  the  weather 
had  been  softening;  it  was  almost  warm  when 
Lance  came  hurrying  home  Tuesday  evening, 
meaning  to  take  care  of  his  prize  at  once.  He 
arrived  at  supper  time,  ate  some  of  Callista's 
bread  and  drank  his  coffee  eagerly,  turning  in 
mute  distaste  from  the  hunk  of  ill-prepared  meat 
upon  the  table.  Supper  over  he  hastened  out  to 
where  he  had  hung  the  deer.  His  wife  had  a 
wild  impulse  to  stop  him;  he  might  have  guessed 
from  the  venison  she  had  cooked  that  the  meat 
was  attended  to.  She  resented  the  dismay  in  his 
face  when  he  came  back  asking: 

"  Do  you  know  what's  come  of  that  deer?  I  got 
Jasper  Fuson  to  let  me  off  sooner,  so's  I  could 
make  haste  and  tend  to  it." 

The  sense  of  failure  closed  in  on  Callista  intoler- 
ably. 

"I  fixed  it,"  she  returned  without  looking  up. 

"All  of  it?  "  inquired  Lance  sharply.  "Fixed  it 
like  that,  do  you  mean  ? "  indicating  the  untouched 
piece  on  the  platter. 

"Yes,"  returned  Callista  with  secret  despair; 
"  all  but  what  the  dogs  got." 

"The  dogs!"  echoed  Lance. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Callista  with  a  sort  of  stubborn 
composure.  "  I  left  about  a  third  of  it  fresh  whilst 
I  was  putting  the  rest  in  the  brine,  and  that  old 
hound  of  yours  came  in  and  stole  the  fresh  piece." 
She  looked  at  his  face  and  then  at  the  meat.  "  I 


*92  Lance  Cleaverage 

reckon  you  think  that  even  a  dog  wouldn't  eat 
this  —  the  way  I've  got  it." 

The  two  young  people  confronted  each  other 
across  the  ruined  food  which  his  skill  and  labor  had 
provided,  her  bungling  destroyed.  The  subject 
for  quarrel  was  a  very  real  one,  terrifyingly  con- 
crete and  pressing.  They  were  afraid  of  it ;  nor  did 
they  at  that  moment  fail  to  realize  the  mighty 
bond  of  love  which  still  was  strong  between  them. 
Both  would  have  been  glad  to  make  some  advance 
toward  peace,  some  movement  of  reconciliation; 
neither  knew  how  to  do  it.  In  Lance,  the  torture 
of  the  thing  expressed  itself  only  in  a  fiery  glance 
turned  upon  his  wife's  handiwork.  To  Callista, 
this  was  so  intolerable  that  she  laid  about  her  for 
an  adequate  retort. 

"Well,"  she  said,  affecting  a  judicial  coolness, 
"it's  true  I  don't  know  much  about  taking  care  of 
wild  meat.  We  never  had  such  in  my  home.  There 
was  always  plenty  of  chickens  and  turkeys ;  and  if 
we  put  up  meat,  it  was  our  own  shoats  and  beef." 

Deer  are  growing  scarce  in  the  Cumberlands; 
not  in  half  a  dozen  cabins  throughout  the  Turkey 
Tracks  would  venison  be  eaten  that  season.  But 
Lance  adduced  nothing  of  this. 

"I  think  you  might  as  well  let  the  dogs  have 
the  rest  of  it,"  he  said  finally,  with  a  singular 
gentleness  in  his  tone.  Then  he  added  with  a 
sudden  upswelling  of  resentment,  "  Give  it  to  'em  if 
they'll  eat  it  —  which  I  misdoubt  they'll  never  do." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

BROKEN     CHORDS. 

AFTER  the  episode  of  the  ruined  venison, 
Callista  tried  sulking  —  refusing  to  speak. 
But  she  found  in  Lance  a  power  of  silence  that 
so  far  overmatched  her  own  as  to  leave  her  daunted. 
He  returned  now  from  his  long  expeditions,  to 
hang  up  his  wild  meat  in  the  grove,  and  thereafter 
to  sit  bright-eyed  and  silent  across  the  hearth  from 
her,  whistling,  under  his  breath,  or  strumming 
lightly  on  his  banjo. 

Callista  was  a  concrete,  objective  individual, 
yet  she  grew  to  recognize  the  resources  of  one  who 
had  for  his  familiars  dreams  that  he  could  bid  to 
stand  at  his  knee  and  beguile  his  leisure  or  his 
loneliness.  But  dreams,  so  treated,  have  a  trick 
of  strengthening  themselves  against  times  of 
depression,  changing  their  nature,  and  wringing 
with  cruel  fingers  the  heart  which  entertains  them ; 
so  that  those  who  feed  the  imagination  must  be 
willing  to  endure  the  strength  of  its  chastisements. 

Yet  if  Lance  Cleaverage  suffered,  he  kept  always 
a  brave  front,  and  took  his  suffering  away  from 
under  the  eye  of  his  young  wife.  To  do  him 
justice,  he  had  little  understanding  of  his  own 
offences.  An  ardent  huntsman,  he  had  by  choice 

193. 


Z94  Lance  Cleaverage 

lived  hard  much  of  his  life,  sleeping  in  the  open  in 
all  weathers,  eating  what  came  to  hand.  Callista's 
needs  he  was  unfitted  to  gauge,  and  she  main- 
tained a  haughty  silence  concerning  them.  Since 
she  would  not  inquire,  he  told  her  nothing  of 
having  been  offered  money  to  play  at  dances,  but 
began  to  be  sometimes  from  home  at  nights, 
taking  his  banjo,  leaving  her  alone. 

An  equable  tempered,  practical  woman  might 
have  trained  him  readily  to  the  duties  of  masculine 
provider  in  the  primitive  household.  But  beauti- 
ful, spoiled  Callista,  burning  with  wrongs  which 
she  was  too  proud  and  too  angry  to  voice,  eaten 
with  jealousy  of  those  thoughts  which  comforted 
him  when  she  refused  to  speak,  always  in  terror 
that  people  would  find  out  how  at  hap-hazard 
they  lived,  how  poor  and  ill-provided  they  were, 
and  laugh  at  her  choice  -  -  Callista  had  her 
own  ideas  of  discipline.  If  Lance  went  away 
and  left  no  firewood  cut,  she  considered  it  proper 
to  retort  by  getting  no  supper  and  letting  him 
come  into  a  house  stone  cold.  This  was  a 
serious  matter  where  a  chunk  of  fire  may  be  sent 
from  neighbor  to  neighbor  to  take  the  place  of 
matches. 

In  this  sort  the  winter  wore  away.  In  April 
there  came  one  of  the  spring  storms  that  southern 
mountaineers  call  "blackberry  winter."  All  the 
little  growing  things  were  checked  or  killed. 
A  fine,  cold  rain  beat  throughout  the  day  around 


Broken  Chords 


the  eaves  of  the  cabin.  The  wind  laid  wet, 
sobbing  lips  to  chink  and  cranny,  and  cried  to  her 
that  she  was  alone  —  alone  —  alone  ;  she,  Callista, 
was  neglected,  deserted,  shunned!  For  Lance 
had  a  day's  work  at  re-lining  fireplaces  at  Squire 
Ashe's  place.  Busy  with  the  truck-patch  he  had 
at  this  late  day  set  about,  and  which  he  must 
both  clear  and  fence,  he  had  somewhat  over- 
looked the  wood  -pile;  and  before  noon  the  fuel 
was  exhausted.  Instead  of  gathering  chips  and 
trash,  or  raiding  the  dry  spaces  under  the  great 
pines  for  cones  and  crackling  twigs,  —  as  any 
one  of  her  hardy  mountain  sisters  would  have 
done,  and  then  greeted  her  man  at  night  with  a 
laugh,  and  a  hot  supper  —  Callista  let  the  fire  go 
out,  and  sat  brooding.  Without  fire  she  could 
cook  herself  no  dinner,  and  she  ate  a  bit  of  cold 
corn-pone,  fancying  Lance  at  somebody's  table  — 
he  never  told  her  now  where  he  was  going,  nor 
for  how  long  —  eating  the  warm,  appetizing  food 
that  would  be  provided. 

As  evening  drew  on  the  rain  slacked,  and  a  cloud 
drove  down  on  the  mountain-top,  forcing  an  icy, 
penetrating  chill  through  the  very  substance  of 
the  walls,  sending  Callista  to  bed  to  get  warm. 
She  wrapped  herself  in  quilts  and  shivered.  It 
was  dark  when  she  heard  Lance  come  stumbling  in, 
cross  the  room,  and,  without  a  word,  search  on  the 
fire  -board  for  matches. 

"There  ain't  any,"  she  told  him,  not  moving 


196  Lance  Cleaverage 

to  get  up.  "  It  wouldn't  do  you  any  good  if  there 
was  —  there's  no  wood." 

He  did  not  answer,  but,  feeling  his  way,  passed 
on  into  the  little  lean-to  kitchen,  and  Callista 
harkened  eagerly,  believing  that  sight  of  the  bowl 
of  meal  and  the  pan  of  uncooked  turnips  on  the 
table  by  the  window  would  bring  home  to  her 
husband  the  enormity  of  her  wrongs  and  his 
offences.  Leaning  forward  she  could  discern  a 
vaguely  illuminated  silhouette  of  him  against  this 
window.  He  appeared  to  be  eating.  She  guessed 
that  he  had  peeled  a  turnip  and  was  making  a 
lunch  of  that. 

"Would  you  rather  have  your  victuals  raw?" 
she  demanded  finally,  desperate  at  his  silence. 
"I  reckon  I'd  better  learn  your  ruthers  in  the 
matter." 

"I'd  rather  have  'em  raw  as  to  have  'em 
cooked  the  way  you  mostly  get  'em,"  came  the 
swift  reply  in  a  perfectly  colorless  tone.  "  I  ain't 
particularly  petted  on  having  my  victuals  burnt 
on  one  side  and  raw  on  the  other,  and  I'd  rather 
do  my  own  seasoning  —  some  folks  salt  things 
till  the  devil  himself  couldn't  eat  'em,  or  leave 
the  salt  out,  and  then  wonder  that  there's  com- 
plaints." 

Her  day  of  brooding  had  come  to  a  crisis  of 
choking  rage.  Callista  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  put  her  thick  hair  back  from  her  face. 

"  I  cook  what  I'm  provided,"  she  said  in  a  cold, 


Broken  Chords 


even  voice.  "That  is,  I  cook  it  when  I'm  sup- 
plied with  wood.  And  I  fix  your  meals  the  best 
I  know  how;  but  it  would  take  one  of  the  sort 
you  named  just  then  to  cook  without  fire." 

She  had  expected  that  he  would  go  out  in  the 
dark  and  cut  firewood  for  her.  As  for  the  matches, 
starting  a  flame  without  them  was  an  easy  trick 
for  a  hunter  like  Lance.  She  remembered  with 
a  sudden  strange  pang  his  once  showing  her  how 
he  could  prepare  his  pile  of  shredded  tinder, 
fire  a  blank  charge  into  it,  and  have  a  blaze 
promptly.  She  heard  him  fumbling  for  something 
on  the  wall  —  his  gun,  of  course.  But  the  next 
instant  there  came  the  whine  of  the  banjo;  it 
hummed  softly  as  it  struck  against  the  lintel. 
That  was  what  he  was  getting  —  not  the  gun  to 
light  a  fire  —  he  was  leaving  her  alone  in  the 
cabin!  She  guessed  that  he  was  going  over  to 
Derf's  to  play  for  a  dance;  and  for  a  strenuous 
moment  she  was  near  to  springing  after  him  and 
begging  him  to  stay  with  her. 

But  habit  prevailed.  She  huddled,  shivering, 
under  her  covers  and  went  back  to  the  sullen 
canker  of  her  own  wrongs.  She  might  have  had 
the  pick  of  the  country  side,  and  she  had  taken 
up  with  Lance  Cleaverage.  She  had  married  him 
when  and  how  he  said  —  that  was  where  she 
made  her  mistake.  She  should  have  told  him 
then  —  she  should  have  —  but,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  rush  of  accusation,  she  knew  well  that  she 


Lance  Cleaverage 

took  Lance  when  and  how  she  could  get  him, 
and  at  this  moment  her  heart  was  clamoring  to 
know  where  he  was  and  what  doing. 

So  she  lay  shivering,  cold  to  the  knees,  her  hands 
like  ice,  her  teeth  locked  in  a  rigor  that  was  as 
much  spiritual  as  physical,  till  she  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  Then  she  got  hesitatingly  up  from 
the  bed  and  stood  long  in  the  middle  of  the 
darkened  room,  turning  her  head  about  as  though 
she  could  see.  She  knew  where  each  article  of 
furniture  stood.  It  was  her  room,  her  home, 
hers  and  Lance's.  Lance  had  built  it;  she  had 
somehow  failed  pitiably,  utterly,  to  make  it  hers ; 
and  she  was  well  aware  that  she  had  failed  to 
make  it  home  for  him  —  yet  it  was  all  either  of 
them  had.  Back  over  her  mind  came  memory  of 
their  wedding  morning,  when,  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  her  head  half  the  time  on  his  shoulder, 
they  had  visited  every  nook  of  the  place  and 
discussed  between  tender  words  and  kisses  all  its 
scant  furnishings.  Then  suddenly,  without  hav- 
ing come  to  any  decision  whatever,  she  found 
herself  out  in  the  cold  rain,  running  through  the 
woods  toward  the  big  road  and  the  Derf  place. 

Down  the  long  slope  from  the  Gap  she  fled, 
then  past  the  old  quarry,  past  Spellman's  clearing, 
and  around  the  Spring  hollow.  She  had  never 
set  foot  on  Derf  land  before.  Through  the  fine 
rain  Callista  —  spent,  gasping,  wet  and  disheveled 
—  at  last  saw  the  windows,  a  luminous  haze ; 


Broken  Chords  T99 

caught  the  sound  of  stamping,  thudding  feet,  and 
heard  the  twang  of  Lance's  banjo.  She  had 
approached  through  the  grove,  and  stood  at  the 
side  fence.  The  place  was  so  public  that  its  dogs 
paid  little  attention  to  comers  and  goers.  When 
Callista  came  to  herself  fully,  she  realized  that  it 
was  the  bars  of  the  milking  place  she  leaned  upon. 
Slowly  she  withdrew  the  upper  one  from  its  socket, 
stepped  over,  then  turned' and  replaced  it.  With 
ever-increasing  hesitation  she  faltered  toward  the 
house,  avoiding  the  front  and  approaching  the 
light  at  the  side,  where  she  hoped  to  be  unobserved. 

Shivering,  shrinking,  her  loosened  wet  hair 
dragging  in  against  her  neck,  she  stared  through 
the  window  into  the  lighted  room.  They  were 
dancing  in  there.  The  sounds  she  had  heard  were 
from  Lance's  banjo  indeed,  but  held  in  other 
hands,  while  Lance  himself  sat  at  a  little  table 
near  the  hearth,  a  steaming  supper  before  him, 
Ola  Derf  waiting  on  him  hand  and  foot,  stooping 
to  the  coals  for  fresh  supplies  of  good  hot  coffee,  or 
smoking,  crisp  pones. 

"Now  you  just  hush!"  she  shrilled  in  response 
to  somebody's  importunities,  as  Callista  hung 
listening.  "Lance  cain't  play  for  no  dancin'  till 
he  gits  through  his  supper.  And  he's  a-goin'  to 
have  time  to  eat,  too.  You  Jim,  put  that  banjo 
down  —  you  cain't  play  hit.  Pat  for  'em  if  they're 
in  such  a  hurry  to  dance." 

The  Aleshine  girls  from  Big  Buck  Gap,  a  young 


200  Lance  Cleaverage 

widow  who  lived  half  way  down  the  Side,  two 
cousins  of  the  Derf s  themselves  —  these  were  the 
women  in  the  room.  Callista  was  desperately 
afraid  lest  one  of  the  loud -talking,  half -intoxicated 
men  in  there  should  come  out  and  discover  her; 
yet  she  could  not  drag  herself  away  from  sight  of 
Lance  sitting  housed,  warm,  comforted  and  fed  — 
a  home  made  for  him.  Something  knocked  at  the 
door  of  her  heart  with  a  message  that  this  scene 
carried ;  but  fiercely  she  barred  that  door,  and  set 
herself  to  defend  her  own  position. 

Grasping  a  trunk  of  muscadine  vine,  which, 
when  she  shivered,  shook  down  icy  drops  upon 
her,  Callista  rested  long,  regarding  the  scene 
before  her.  What  should  she  do?  To  return  to 
her  home  and  leave  her  husband  there  seemed  a 
physical  impossibility.  To  go  in  and  play  the 
high-and-mighty,  as  she  had  been  wont  to  do  in 
her  free  girlhood,  to  glance  over  her  shoulder 
with  dropped  eyelids  and  inform  Lance  Cleaverage 
that  she  cared  not  at  all  what  he  did  or  where  he 
went — this  were  mere  farce ;  her  time  for  that  sort 
of  mumming  was  past. 

Lance  had  finished  his  supper  now,  and  turned 
from  the  board.  It  seemed  to  Callista  that  he 
looked  well  pleased  with  himself,  satisfied,  even 
gay.  The  sight  set  her  teeth  rattling  in  fresh 
shivers.  Still  he  did  not  play  for  the  dancers,  who 
continued  to  make  what  headway  they  might  to 
the  time  of  Jim's  patting. 


Broken  Chords  201 

Callista  saw  Ola  bring  the  banjo  and  lay  it  in 
Lance's  lap.  Then  the  little  brown  girl  seated 
herself  close  beside  him.  He  bent  and  placed  the 
instrument  properly  in  Ola's  grasp,  disposing  the 
short,  stubbed  fingers  on  the  strings.  In  the  posi- 
tive throe  of  jealousy  that  this  sight  brought, 
Callista  must  needs,  for  her  own  self-respect,  recall 
that  Lance  had  offered  more  than  once  to  teach  her 
to  play,  and  that  she  had  refused  —  and  pretty 
shortly,  too  —  to  learn,  or  to  touch  the  banjo, 
which  she  had  come  to  hate  with  an  unreasoning 
hatred.  Now  the  dancers  grew  tired  of  Jim  and 
his  patting,  and  the  call  was  for  music. 

"See  here,  Lance  Cleaverage,"  said  Buck  Fuson, 
"  we-all  thro  wed  in  to  get  you  to  play ;  but  we  ain't 
a-goin'  to  pay  the  money  and  have  you  fool  away 
yo'  time  with  Ola." 

This  was  the  first  that  Callista  knew  of  Lance 
earning  money  by  his  banjo-playing. 

"All  right,"  said  Cleaverage  laconically,  not 
looking  up  from  his  instructions.  "  I've  had  me 
a  good  supper,  and  I've  got  a  warm  place  to  stay, 
and  that's  all  I  want.  Go  on  and  dance." 

He  addressed  himself  singly  to  Ola  and  her 
chords,  moving  her  fingers  patiently,  taking  the 
banjo  himself  to  show  her  just  how  the  thing  was 
done.  She  was  a  dull  pupil,  but  a  humbly  grate- 
ful one;  and  after  a  while  it  seemed  to  Callista 
that  she  could  no  longer  bear  the  sight.  She  was 
debating  starkly  between  the  desperate  course  of 


202  Lance  Cleaverage 

returning  home  alone  and  the  yet  more  desperate 
enterprise  of  going  in,  when  a  deeper  shadow 
crossed  the  darkness  behind  her,  and  she  turned 
with  a  smothered  scream  to  find  Iley  Derf  's  Indian 
husband  moving  impassively  through  the  glow 
from  the  window  and  making  his  way  to  the  back 
door. 

At  the  sight  she  wheeled  and  fled  across  the 
yard  toward  the  front  gate  and  the  road.  She 
gained  that  doubtful  refuge  just  as  a  man  on  a 
horse  came  splattering  up  out  of  the  muddy 
little  hollow  below  the  Derf  place.  With  another 
cry  she  flung  about  and  ran  from  him,  stepped 
on  a  round  stone,  and  fell. 

For  a  moment  she  crouched,  shivering,  wet, 
bruised,  trying  to  get  to  her  feet,  the  breath 
sobbing  through  her  parted  lips;  then  somebody 
set  a  not-too-gentle  grasp  on  her  shoulder,  and  she 
looked  up  to  divine  in  the  dimness  Flenton  Hands 's 
face  above  her.  There  was  sufficient  light  from 
the  noisy  cabin  behind  to  allow  him  to  recognize 
her. 

"Lord  God  —  Callista!"  he  whispered,  lifting 
her  to  her  feet  and  supporting  her  with  an  arm 
under  hers.  "  What  in  the  world  - 

"I  —  I  —  something  scared  me,"  she  faltered. 
"It  was  that  old  Indian  that  Iley  Derf  married. 
He  came  right  a-past  where  I  was  and,  and  —  he 
scared  me." 

"Whar  was  you  at?"  inquired  Hands  blankly. 


"  He  placed  the  instrument  in  Ola's  grasp." 


Broken  Chords  203 

"  In  there,"  returned  Callista,  pointing  to  ward  the 
Derf  yard,  beginning  to  cry  like  a  child.  "I  was 
looking  through  the  window  at  them  dance,  and  — 
and  that  old  Indian  scared  me." 

Twang  —  twang — twang,  across  the  gusty  black- 
ness of  the  night  came  the  jeer  of  Lance's  banjo. 
There  was  no  whisper  now  of  "  How  many  miles 
—  how  many  years?"  but  the  sharp  staccato  of 
"Cripple  Creek,"  punctuated  by  the  thudding  of 
dancers'  feet  as  they  pounded  out  the  time. 
Callista  felt  her  face  grow  hot  in  the  darkness. 
She  knew  that  Flenton  was  listening,  and  that  he 
must  guess  why  she  should  hang  outside  the  win- 
dow looking  in. 

"Come  on,"  said  Hands  suddenly,  almost 
roughly.  "  This  ain't  no  fit  place  for  you,  —  a 
woman  like  you,  —  my  God !  Callista,  I'll  put 
you  on  my  horse  and  take  you  home." 

There  was  a  new  note  in  his  voice,  a  new  author- 
ity in  his  movements,  as  he  lifted  her  to  the  saddle 
and,  plodding  beside  her  in  the  dark,  wet  road, 
made  no  further  offer  of  question  or  conversation. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Callista  felt  comforted.  She 
reached  up  and  gathered  her  hair  together, 
wringing  the  rain  from  it  and  redding  it  with  the 
great  shell  comb  which  always  held  its  abundant 
coils  in  place.  She  could  not  in  reason  tell 
Flenton  to  leave  her  —  she  needed  him  too  much. 
When  they  turned  in  at  the  ill-kept  lane  which  led 
to  Lance's  cabin,  Lance's  wife  caught  her  breath 


204  Lance  Cleaverage 

a  little,  but  said  nothing.  Flenton  lifted  her 
gently  down  at  her  own  door-stone,  and,  opening 
the  door  for  her,  followed  her  in  and,  with  a  match 
from  his  pocket,  lit  a  candle.  He  looked  at  the 
cold  ash-heap  on  the  fireless  hearth,  whistled  a 
bit,  and  went  out.  She  heard  him  striking  matches 
somewhere  about  the  wood-pile,  and  directly 
after  came  the  sound  of  an  axe.  It  was  not  long 
before  he  returned,  his  arms  piled  high  with  such 
bits  of  dry  wood  as  he  could  find,  split  to  kindling 
size. 

"It  looks  like  it's  a  shame  for  me  to  have  you 
waitin'  on  me  this-a-way,"  Callista  began  half- 
heartedly. She  had  taken  counsel  with  herself, 
during  his  absence,  and  resolved  to  make  some 
effort  to  keep  up  appearances. 

"Hit  don't  look  like  anything  of  the  sort," 
protested  Flenton  Hands.  "  You  needed  me,  and 
that's  all  I  want  to  know." 

He  had  laid  his  fire  skilfully,  and  now  the  blaze 
began  to  roar  up  the  big  chimney. 

"My  feet  ain't  been  warm  this  whole  blessed 
day,"  Callista  said,  almost  involuntarily,  as  she 
drew  nearer  the  fascinating  source  of  both  warmth 
and  light.  "  My,  but  that  does  feel  good ! " 

"You  pore  child!"  Flent  muttered  huskily, 
turning  toward  her  from  the  hearth  where  he 
knelt.  "You're  e'en  about  perished." 

He  went  out  then,  only  to  come  hurriedly  back, 
reporting, 


Broken  Chords  205 

"I  cain't  find  any  wood  —  whar  does  Lance 
keep  it? " 

Lance's  wife  hung  her  head,  lips  pressed  tight 
together,  striving  for  resolution  to  answer  this 
with  a  smooth  lie. 

"  He  don't  go  off  and  leave  you  in  this  kind  of 
weather  without  any  wood?"  inquired  Hands 
hoarsely. 

"  Yes  —  he  does,"  Callista  choked.  And,  having 
opened  the  bottle  a  bit,  out  poured  the  hot  wine 
of  her  wrath.  All  the  things  that  she  might  have 
said  to  her  mother  had  she  been  on  good  terms 
with  that  lady;  the  taunts  that  occurred  to  her 
in  Lance's  absence  and  which  she  failed  to  utter 
to  him  when  he  came ;  these  rushed  pell-mell  into 
speech.  She  was  white  and  shaking  when  she 
made  an  end. 

"There,"  she  said  tragically,  getting  to  her 
feet.  "I  reckon  I  had  no  business  to  name  one 
word  of  this  to  you,  Flenton ;  but  I'm  the  most 
miserable  creature  that  ever  lived,  I  do  think;  and 
I  ain't  got  a  soul  on  this  earth  that  cares  whether 
or  not  about  me.  And  —  and  - 

She  broke  off,  locking  her  hands  tightly  and 
staring  down  at  them. 

Flenton  had  the  sense  and  the  self-control  not 
to  approach  her,  not  to  introduce  too  promptly  the 
personal  note. 

"Callista,"  he  began  cautiously,  assuming  as 
nearly  as  possible  the  tone  of  an  unbiased  friend  to 


206  Lance  Cleaverage 

both  parties,  "you  ort  to  quit  Lance.  He  ain't 
doin'  you  right.  There's  more  than  you  know 
of  in  this  business ;  and  whether  you  stay  thar  or 
not,  you  ort  to  quit  him  oncet  and  go  home  to  yo' 
folks." 

Callista  made  an  inarticulate  sound  of  denial. 

"  I  never  will  —  never  in  this  world !  "  she  burst 
out.  "I  might  quit  Lance,  but  home  I'll  never 

go-" 

Flenton's  pale  gray  eyes  lit  up  at  the  suggestion 
of  her  words,  but  she  put  aside  the  hand  he 
stretched  out  toward  her. 

"  I've  been  studying  about  it  all  day,  and  for  a 
good  many  days  before  this  one,"  she  said  with 
slow  bitterness.  "Lance  Cleaverage  gives  me 
plenty  of  time  to  study.  If  I  leave  this  house, 
I'm  goin'  straight  to  Father  Cleaverage." 

Hands  looked  disappointed,  but  he  did  not  fail 
to  press  the  minor  advantage. 

"If  you  want  to  go  to-night,  Callista,"  he  sug- 
gested, "  I'd  be  proud  to  carry  you  right  along  on 
my  horse.  Lance  needs  a  lesson  powerful  bad. 
You  go  with  me  - 

"Hush,"  Callista  warned  him.  "I  thought  I 
heard  somebody  coming.  Thank  you,  Flent. 
You've  been  mighty  good  to  me  this  night.  I'll 
never  forget  you  for  it  —  but  I  reckon  you  better 
go  now.  When  a  woman's  wedded,  she  has  to  be 
careful  about  the  speech  of  people ;  and  —  I  reckon 
you  better  go  now,  Flent." 


Broken  Chords  207 

The  rain  had  ceased .  A  wan  moon  looked  out  in 
the  western  sky  and  made  the  wet  branches  shine 
with  a  dim  luster.  Callista  stood  in  the  doorway 
against  the  broken  leap  and  shine  of  the  firelight. 
Hands  went  to  his  horse,  and  then  turned  back 
to  look  at  her. 

"And  you  won't  go  with  me  ? "  he  repeated  once 
more.  "Callista,  you'd  be  as  safe  with  me  as 
with  your  own  brother.  I've  got  that  respect 
for  you  that  it  don't  seem  like  you're  the  same  as 
other  women.  I  wish't  you'd  go,  if  for  nothin' 
but  to  learn  Lance  a  lesson." 

The  girl  in  the  doorway  knew  that  there  was 
no  wood  for  any  more  fire  than  that  which  now 
blazed  on  the  hearth  behind  her;  she  was  aware 
that  there  was  scarcely  food  in  the  house  for  three 
days'  eating;  yet  she  found  courage  to  shake  her 
head. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Flent,"  she  said  with  a 
note  of  finality  in  her  tone.  "  I  know  you  mean 
well,  but  I  cain't  go." 

Then  she  closed  the  door  as  though  to  shut  out 
the  temptation,  and,  dressed  as  she  was,  lay  down 
upon  the  bed  and  pulled  the  quilts  over  her. 

She  listened  to  the  retreating  hoofs  of  Flenton's 
horse,  dreading  always  to  hear  Lance's  voice 
hailing  him,  telling  herself  that  his  presence  there 
at  that  hour  alone  with  her  was  all  Lance's  fault, 
and  she  had  no  reason  for  the  shame  and  fear 
which  possessed  her  at  thought  of  it.  But  the 


208  Lance  Cleaverage 

hoofs  passed  quite  away,  and  still  Lance  did  not 
make  his  appearance.  She  could  not  sleep.  She 
judged  it  was  near  midnight.  Pictures  of  Lance 
teaching  Ola  Derf  her  chords  on  the  banjo  flickered 
before  her  eyes.  Pictures  of  Lance  dancing  with 
Ola  as  he  had  at  the  infare  followed.  She  had 
a  kind  of  wonder  at  herself  that  she  was  not 
angrier,  that  she  was  only  spent  and  numbed  and 
cowed.  Then  all  at  once  came  a  light  step  she 
knew  well,  the  sudden  little  harmonious  outcry 
of  the  banjo  as  Lance  set  it  down  to  open  the  door, 
and  Lance  himself  was  in  the  room. 

She  thought  she  would  have  spoken  to  him. 
She  did  not  know  that  the  Indian  had  gone  in  and 
announced  her  presence  outside  the  window  at 
the  Derfs.  As  she  raised  her  head  she  got  his 
haughty,  lifted  profile  between  herself  and  the 
light  of  the  now  dying  fire.  She  knew  that  he 
was  aware  of  her  presence ;  but  he  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left ;  he  made  no  comment 
on  her  fire,  but  strode  swiftly  through  the  room, 
across  the  open  passage,  and  into  the  far  room. 
She  heard  him  moving  about  for  a  few  moments, 
then  everything  was  silent. 

All  that  numbing  inertia  fell  away  from  her. 
She  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  as  she  had  once 
before  that  evening,  and  her  eyes  went  from  side 
to  side  of  the  room,  picking  out  what  she  wanted 
to  take  with  her.  A  few  swift  movements  secured 
her  shawl  and  sunbonnet.  Without  stealth,  yet 


Broken  Chords  209 

without  noise,  she  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
forth. 

She  stood  in  the  open  threshing-floor  porch 
between  the  two  rooms,  a  very  gulf  of  shadow, 
into  which  watery  moonlight  struggled  from  the 
world  outside.  A  long  while  she  stood  so,  looking 
toward  the  far  room,  her  hands  clenched  and 
pressed  hard  against  her  breast.  Those  hands 
were  empty.  She  had  shut  the  door  of  her  girl- 
hood home  against  herself  unless  she  returned,  a 
gift  in  them.  No  —  she  would  not  go  back  there. 

All  at  once  she  became  aware  of  a  rhythmic 
sound,  which  made  itself  heard  in  the  utter 
stillness  of  the  forest  night  —  Lance's  deep 
breathing.  He  slept  then;  he  could  go  to  sleep 
like  that,  when  she — .  Callista  faltered  forward 
toward  the  front  step;  and  as  she  did  so,  another 
sound  overbore  the  slighter  noise;  it  was  the 
hoofs  of  an  approaching  horse. 

She  checked,  turned,  flung  the  sunbonnet  from 
her  and  dropped  the  shawl  upon  it,  then,  with  a 
quick,  light  step,  crossed  the  porch  and  noise- 
lessly pushed  open  the  door  of  the  room  in  which 
Lance  lay.  The  little  pale  moon  made  faint 
radiance  in  the  room,  and  by  its  light  she  saw  her 
husband  lying  on  that  monster  spare  bed  which 
is  the  pride  of  every  country  housewife.  He  had 
folded  and  put  aside  the  ruffled  covers  of  her 
contriving,  and  lay  dressed  as  he  was,  with  only 
his  shoes  removed.  On  tiptoe  she  drew  near  and 


Lance  Cleaverage 

stood  looking  down  at  him.  They  said  if  you 
held  a  looking-glass  over  a  sleeping  person's  face 
and  asked  him  a  question,  he'd  tell  you  the  truth. 
What  was  it  she  wanted  to  know  of  Lance?  Not 
whether  he  loved  her  or  no,  though  she  said  to 
herself  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  he  cared  nothing 
about  her,  and  had  never  really  cared. 

The  sleeper  stirred  and  turned  on  his  pillow, 
offering  her  a  broader  view  of  that  strangely 
disconcerting  countenance  of  slumber,  as  ambigu- 
ous well-nigh  as  the  face  of  death  itself. 

She  wheeled  and  fled  noiselessly,  as  she  had 
come  in.  The  light,  approaching  horse's  hoofs 
had  ceased  to  sound  some  moments  now.  At  the 
gate  a  mounted  figure  stood  motionless  within  the 
shadow  of  the  big  pine.  She  ran  down  the  path 
to  find  Flenton  Hands. 

"I  —  Callista,"  he  faltered  in  a  low  voice, 
"don't  be  mad.  I  —  looks  like  I  couldn't  leave 
you  this-a-way.  I  was  plumb  to  the  corner  of  our 
big  field,  and  —  I  come  back." 

He  glanced  with  uncertainty  and  apprehension 
toward  the  house;  then,  as  he  noted  her  shawl 
and  bonnet,  got  quickly  from  the  saddle,  saying 
hurriedly,  eagerly, 

"  I  'lowed  maybe  you  might  change  your  mind  — 
and  I  —  I  come  back." 

"Yes, "  said  Callista,  not  looking  at  him.  " I'm 
ready  to  go  now,  Fle'nt." 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
ROXY  GRIEVER'S  GUEST. 

TT  was  a  strange  day  whose  gray  dawn  brought 
-••  Callista  to  her  father-in-law's  door.  Where 
she  had  wandered,  questioning,  debating,  agoni- 
zing, since  she  dismissed  Flenton  Hands  at  the 
corner  of  old  Kimbro's  lean  home  pasture,  only 
Callista  knew.  The  Judas  tree  down  by  the  spring 
branch  might  have  told  a  tale  of  clutching  fingers 
that  reached  up  to  its  low  boughs,  while  somebody 
stood  shaking  and  listening  to  the  sound  of  the 
creek  that  came  down  the  gorge  past  that  home 
Callista  was  leaving.  The  mosses  between  there 
and  the  big  road  could  have  whispered  of  swift- 
passing  feet  that  went  restlessly  as  though  driven 
to  and  fro  over  their  sodden  carpet  for  hours.  The 
bluff  where  a  trail  precariously  rounds  old  Flat 
Top  kept  its  secret  of  a  crouching  figure  that 
looked  out  over  the  Gulf,  black  in  the  now  moon- 
less night,  of  a  sobbing  voice  that  prayed,  and 
accused  and  questioned  incoherently. 

The  household  at  Kimbro  Cleaverage's  rose  by 
candle-light.  Sylvane,  strolling  out  to  the  water 
bucket,  barely  well  awake,  caught  sight  of  his 
sister-in-law  at  the  gate,  gave  one  swift  glance  at 
her  face  as  it  showed  gray  through  the  dim  light, 


212  Lance  Cleaverage 

wheeled  silently  and  hurried  ahead  of  her  into 
the  kitchen  to  warn  his  sister  not  to  betray  surprise. 
So  she  was  received  with  that  marvelous,  fine 
courtesy  of  the  mountaineer,  which  proffers  only 
an  unquestioning  welcome,  demanding  no  explana- 
tions of  the  strangest  coming  or  of  the  most  unex- 
pected comer.  She  answered  their  greeting  in  a 
curious,  lifeless  tone,  said  only  that  she  was  tired, 
not  sick  at  all,  and  would  like  to  lie  down ;  and 
when  Roxy  hastened  with  her  to  the  bed  in  the 
far  room  and  saw  her  safely  bestowed  there,  the 
girl  sank  into  almost  instant  slumber  so  soon  as 
she  had  stretched  herself  out. 

"She's  went  to  sleep  already,"  whispered  Roxy 
to  Sylvane,  stepping  back  into  the  kitchen,  and, 
while  she  quietly  carried  forward  the  breakfast 
preparations,  the  boy  crept  up  to  the  loft  where 
Mary  Ann  Martha  and  Polly  slept  and  whence  the 
little  one's  boisterous  tones  began  to  be  heard. 
Later  he  came  down  with  the  two,  holding  the 
five-year-old  by  the  hand,  imposing  quiet  upon 
them  both  by  look  and  word ;  maintaining  it  by 
constant  watchfulness. 

They  ate  their  breakfast,  speaking  in  subdued 
voices,  mostly  of  indifferent  matters.  Roxy,  who, 
woman  fashion,  would  have  made  some  comment, 
inquiry  or  suggestion,  was  checked  whenever 
she  looked  at  the  faces  of  her  men  folk.  The 
meal  over,  Sylvane  and  her  father  went  out  to  the 
day's  work.  Roxy  cleared  away  the  dishes  and 


Roxy  Griever's  Guest  213 

set  the  house  in  order,  returning  every  little  while 
to  hover  doubtfully  above  that  slim  form  lying  so 
silent  and  motionless  in  the  bed.  She  was  fright- 
ened at  the  way  the  girl  slept,  unaware  that 
Callista  had  not  closed  her  eyes  the  night  before, 
and  that  she  was  worn  out,  mind  and  body,  with 
weeks  of  fretting  emotions. 

The  morning  came  on  still,  warm  and  cloudy. 
There  was  silence  in  the  forest,  the  softened  loam 
making  no  sound  under  any  foot,  last  year's  old 
leaves  too  damp  to  rustle  on  the  oak  boughs.  It 
was  a  day  so  soundless,  stirless,  colorless,  as  to 
seem  unreal,  with  a  haunting  sadness  in  the  air 
like  an  undefined  memory  of  past  existences,  a 
drowsiness  of  forgotten  lands.  Even  the  hearth 
fire  faded  faint  in  that  toneless  day,  which  had 
neither  sun  nor  moon  nor  wind,  neither  heat  nor 
cold  indoors  or  out.  Again  and  again,  as  the 
hours  wore  on,  the  Widow  Griever  stole  in  and 
looked  upon  her  sleeping  guest  with  a  sort  of 
terror.  She  sent  Polly  away  with  Mary  Ann 
Martha  to  look  for  posies  in  the  far  woods  that  the 
house  might  be  quiet.  Quiet — it  was  as  if  the 
vast  emptiness  which  surrounds  the  universe  had 
penetrated  into  the  heart  of  that  day,  making  all 
objects  transparent,  weightless,  meaningless,  with- 
out power  of  motion.  She  would  stand  beside 
the  bed,  noting  the  even  breathing  of  the  sleeper, 
then  go  softly  to  the  door  and  look  out.  The 
trees  rose  into  the  stillness  and  emptiness  and 


214  Lance  Cleaverage 

spread  their  branches  there,  themselves  thin 
shadows  of  a  one-time  growth  and  life.  The  water 
of  the  pond  below  lay  wan  and  glassy,  unstirred 
by  any  ripple.  The  very  rocks  on  its  edges 
appeared  devoid  of  substance.  From  ten  o'clock 
on  seemed  one  standstill  afternoon,  lacking  sign 
of  life  or  the  passage  of  time,  until  the  impercep- 
tible approach  of  dusk  and  the  slow  deepening  of 
a  night  which  might  to  all  appearances  be  the 
shadow  of  eternal  sleep. 

Kimbro  and  his  son  had  taken  their  bit  of 
dinner  with  them  to  their  work  of  clearing  and 
brush-burning  in  a  distant  field.  At  dusk  they 
came  quietly  in  to  find  the  supper  ready,  Polly 
still  herding  Mary  Ann  Martha  to  keep  her  quiet, 
Roxy  Griever  putting  the  meal  on  the  table, 
worried,  but  saying  nothing.  On  their  part,  they 
asked  no  questions,  but  each  stole  an  anxious  glance 
at  the  shut  door  behind  which  was  the  spare  bed. 
As  they  sat  down  to  eat,  Roxy  said  to  her  father : 

"  I  don't  hardly  know,  Poppy  -  -  She's  a-sleepin' 
yit  —  been  a-sleepin'  like  that  ever  sence  she  laid 
down  thar.  Do  you  reckon  I  ort  - 

"I'd  jest  let  her  sleep,  daughter,"  put  in  the 
old  man  gently.  "  I  reckon  hit's  the  best  medicine 
she  can  get.  The  pore  child  must  be  sort  of  wore 
out." 

After  supper,  while  Roxy,  with  Polly's  help, 
was  washing  the  dishes,  Kimbro  and  his  younger 
son  held  a  brief  consultation  out  by  the  gate, 


Roxy  Griever's  Guest  2I5 

following  which  the  boy  moved  swiftly  off,  going 
up  Lance's  Laurel. 

A  little  later  Callista  waked  briefly.  She  sat 
listlessly  upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  declining  Roxy '5 
eager  proffer  of  good  warm  supper  at  the  table, 
and  took  —  almost  perforce  —  from  the  elder 
woman's  hand  the  cup  of  coffee  and  bit  of  food 
which  Roxy  brought  her. 

"No,  no,  nothing  more,  thank  you,  Sister 
Roxy ! ' '  she  said  hastily,  almost  recoiling.  "  That's 
a-plenty.  I  ain't  hungry  —  just  sort  o'  tired."  And 
she  turned  round,  stretched  herself  on  the  bed  once 
more,  and  sank  back  into  sleep. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  breakfast  was 
ready,  although  Roxy  had  listened  in  vain  for 
sounds  from  the  small  far  room,  Callista  came 
unexpectedly  out,  fully  dressed.  She  sat  with 
them  at  the  table,  pale,  downcast,  staring  at  her 
plate  and  crumbling  a  bit  of  corn  pone,  unable  to 
do  more  than  drink  a  few  swallows  of  coffee.  She 
did  not  note  that  Sylvane  was  missing.  Later 
the  boy  came  back  from  Lance's  Laurel,  to  tell  his 
father  and  sister  that  he  had  spent  the  night  with 
his  brother,  that  the  cabin  in  the  Gap  was  now 
closed  and  empty,  and  Lance  gone  to  work  at 
Thatcher  Daggett's  sawmill,  some  twelve  miles 
through  the  woods,  out  on  North  Caney  Creek, 
where  several  men  of  the  neighborhood  were 
employed. 

"That's  the  reason  Callista  come  over  here," 


216  Lance  Cleaverage 

old  Kimbro  said  mildly.  "She  and  Lance  have 
had  a  difference  of  opinion,  hit's  likely,  about 
whether  or  no  he  should  go  there.  Well,  I'm 
sure  glad  to  have  her  with  us.  She'd  'a'  been 
right  lonesome  all  to  herself." 

"Would  you  name  it  to  her?  "  asked  the  widow 
anxiously. 

Kimbro  shook  his  head.  "Don't  you  name 
nothin'  to  the  girl,  except  that  she's  welcome 
in  this  house  as  long  as  she  cares  to  stay  —  and 
don't  say  too  much  about  that  —  she  knows  it." 

"  Lance  has  fixed  it  up  with  old  man  Daggett  so 
that  Callista  can  get  what  she  wants  from  the 
store  —  Derf's  place,"  put  in  Sylvane. 

An  expression  of  relief  dawned  upon  Roxy's 
thin,  anxious  face.  The  Kimbro  Cleaverages  were 
very  poor.  Truly,  Callista,  the  admired,  was 
welcome,  yet  the  seams  of  their  narrow  resources 
would  fairly  gape  with  the  strain  to  cover  the 
entertainment  of  such  a  guest.  If  she  could  get 
what  she  wanted  from  Derf's,  it  would  simplify 
matters  greatly. 

"Well,  you'll  tell  her  that,  won't  ye,  Buddy?" 
his  sister  prompted  Sylvane. 

He  nodded. 

"  I've  got  some  other  things  to  tell  her  from 
Lance,"  he  said,  boyishly  secretive.  "I'm  goin' 
over  to  see  him  at  the  mill  come  Sunday,  and  she 
can  send  word  by  me.  I'll  be  passin'  back  and 
forth  all  the  time  whilst  he's  workin'  there." 


Roxy  Griever's  Guest  217 

But  when  this  easy  method  of  communication 
was  brought  to  the  notice  of  Callista,  she  made 
no  offer  toward  using  it. 

It  was  mid -afternoon  of  the  day  following  her 
arrival.  The  rain  was  intermitted,  not  definitely 
ceased;  there  would  be  more  of  it;  but  just  now 
the  air  was  warm  and  the  sun"*brilliant.  Mountain 
fashion,  the  door  of  the  cabin  stood  wide.  Mary 
Ann  Martha  had  a  corn  pone,  and  she  took  occa- 
sional bites  from  it  as  she  circled  the  visitor, 
staring  at  her  with  avid,  hazel  eyes,  that  troubled 
Callista 's  calm  whenever  she  caught  the  fire  of 
them,  so  like  Lance's.  Marauding  chickens  came 
across  the  door-stone  and  ventured  far  on  the 
child's  trail  of  crumbs;  the  light  cackle  of  their 
whispered  duckings,  the  scratch  of  their  claws  on 
the  puncheons,  alone  broke  the  stillness.  Callista 
sat  by  the  doorway,  a  dead  weight  at  her  heart. 
The  pallor,  the  weariness  of  it,  were  plain  in  her 
face. 

"Good  land,  Polly  —  cain't  you  take  this  chap 
over  yon  in  the  woods  and  lose  her  ? "  demanded  the 
widow  in  final  exasperation,  as  Mary  Ann  Martha 
turned  suddenly  on  the  chicken  that  was  stalking 
her,  and  shooed  it,  squalling,  from  the  door.  "  I 
want  to  get  out  my  quilt  and  work  on  it." 

All  unconscious  that  these  things  were  done  on 
her  behalf,  Callista  saw  the  unwilling  Mary  Ann 
Martha  marched  away.  She  beheld  the  gospel 
quilt  brought  out  and  spread  on  the  widow's  knees 


218  Lance  Cleaverage 

quite  as  some  chatelaine  of  old  might  have  pro- 
duced her  tapestry  for  the  diversion  of  the  guest. 
Over  the  gulf  of  pain  and  regret  and  apprehension 
-  this  well  of  struggling,  seething  emotion  - 
lightly  rippled  the  surface  sounds  of  life,  material 
talk,  bits  of  gossip,  that  Callista  roused  herself 
to  harken  to  and  answer. 

Roxy  spoke  in  a  solemn,  muffled  tone,  some- 
thing the  voice  she  would  have  used  if  her  father  or 
Sylvane  were  dead  in  the  house.  She  would  have 
been  more  than  human,  and  less  than  woman,  had 
she  not  to  some  degree  relished  the  situation.  She 
remembered  with  deep  satisfaction  that,  though 
she  was  his  own  sister,  she  had  always  reprehended 
Lance  publicly  and  privately,  holding  him  unfit 
to  mate  with  this  paragon.  Callista  had  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  at  her  own  funeral.  She  drooped, 
colorless  and  inert,  in  her  chair,  and  stared  past 
everything  the  room  contained,  out  through  the 
open  door  and  across  the  far  blue  rim  of  hills. 

"I  believe  in  my  soul  these  here  needles 
Sylvane  got  me  is  too  fine  for  my  cotton,"  Roxy 
murmured,  by  way  of  attracting  attention.  "I 
wonder  could  you  thread  one  for  me,  Callisty? 
Your  eyes  is  younger  than  mine." 

Callista  took  the  needle  and  threaded  it,  handing 
it  back  with  a  sigh.  As  shedid  so,  her  glance  encoun- 
tered Roxy's  solicitous  gaze,  then  fell  to  the  quilt. 

"  You  —  you've  done  a  sight  of  work  on  that, 
haven't  you,  Sis'  Roxy? "  she  asked  gently. 


Roxy  Griever's  Guest  219 

The  widow  nodded.  "An'  there's  a  sight  more 
to  do,"  she  added. 

"This  is  a  pretty  figure,"  Callista  said,  point* 
ing  at  random,  but  producing  a  kindly  show  of 
interest. 

Roxy  brightened. 

"Can  you  make  out  what  it's  meant  for?"  she 
inquired  eagerly.  Then,  for  fear  Callista  should 
attempt  and  fail,  "I  aimed  it  for  a  Tree  of  Life, 
with  a  angel  sorter  peerched  on  it,  an'  one  standin' 
un'neath.  But,"  deprecatingly,  "hit  looks  mo'  like 
a  jimpson  weed  to  me.  An'  pears  like  I  don't 
never  have  no  luck  with  angels." 

Callista's  absent  gaze  rested  upon  the  unsatis- 
factory sprigged  calico  and  striped  seersucker  ver~ 
sion  of  members  of  the  heavenly  host. 

"Them  Jacob 's-ladder  angels — you  hain't  never 
seen  them,  Callisty,  sence  I  sorter  tinkered  they' 
wings.  Look!  'Pears  to  me  like  it's  he'ped  'em 
powerful.  But  these  —  I  vow,  I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter  of  'em,  without  it's  the  goods. 
That  thar  stuff  is  'most  too  coarse  for  angels, 
I  reckon.  Or  it  might  be  the  color.  '  Warshed 
whiter'n  snow  —  without  spot  or  stain  -  '  that's 
what  the  Good  Book  says,  whilst  all  these  is 
spotted  and  figured.  But  ye  see  white  on  white 
wouldn't  never  show.  I  might  'a'  used  blue-and- 
white  stripe.  And  then  again,  the  sayin'  is. 
'  Chastised  with  many  stripes'  —  that'd  never  be 
angels,  nohow." 


220  Lance  Cleaverage 

Once  more  Callista  made  an  effort  to  bring  her 
mind  to  the  problem  in  hand. 

"The  sky  is  blue,"  Roxy  adduced  somewhat 
lamely.  "Do  you  reckon  blue  angels  would  be 
more  better?  " 

"Maybe  purple,"  hesitated  the  visitor.  "The 
Bible  names  purple  a  heap  in  regards  to  Heaven  — 
purple  and  gold.  I've  got  a  piece  of  purple 
calico  at  —  at  home."  Her  voice  trailed  and 
faltered  huskily  over  the  words.  Then  she  set 
her  lips  hard,  crested  her  head  in  the  old 
fashion,  and  went  on  evenly.  "I've  got  a  piece 
of  mighty  pretty  purple,  and  one  as  near  gold  as 
ever  goods  was,  that  you're  welcome  to,  Sis'  Roxy, 
if  —  if  you  or  Polly  would  go  over  and  get  'em." 

Again  thought  of  where  those  treasured  rolls 
of  calico  were  to  be  found  lowered  the  clear,  calm, 
defiant  voice.  Roxy  noted  it;  but  the  magnum- 
opus,  brought  out  to  cheer  and  divert  Callista, 
had  laid  its  unfailing  spell  upon  the  widow;  the 
lust  for  quilt  pieces,  rampant  in  all  mountain 
women,  wakened  in  her,  aggravated  in  her  case 
by  the  peculiar  needs,  the  more  exacting  demands 
of  her  own  superior  artistry. 

"Yes  —  shore,  honey;  I'll  be  glad  to  go  any 
time,"  she  said,  "ef  you'll  jest  tell  me  where  to 
look." 

So  life  went  on  at  the  Kimbro  Cleaverage  place, 
a  curious  interlude,  and  still  no  word  was  said  to 


Roxy  Gr lever's  Guest  221 

Callista  of  the  strangeness  of  her  advent,  and  no 
explanation  vouchsafed,  till  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  the  girl  herself  sought  her  father-in-law 
and  opened  the  matter  haltingly,  timidly.  They 
were  out  at  the  chip-pile  where  Kimbrowas  cutting 
the  next  day's  wood  for  Roxy's  use.  He  dropped 
his  axe  to  the  chopping  log  and  stood  leaning  on  it, 
peering  at  her  with  mild,  faded,  near-sighted  eyes. 

"Well  now,  Callisty,"  he  began  gently,  "I'm 
glad  you  named  this  to  me,  becaze  I've  got  a 
message  for  you  from  Lance,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
speak  of  it  for  fear  it  would  seem  like  hurrying 
you  away,  or  criticising  any  of  your  actions.  I 
want  you  to  know,  daughter,  that  I  don't  do 
that.  Lance  is  a  wild  boy,  and  he's  got  wild  ways. 
But  he  has  a  true  heart,  honey,  and  one  of  these 
days  you'll  find  it.  Now,  I  reckon,  you  might  be 
having  some  trouble  with  him." 

"A  message,"  repeated  Callista  in  a  low  tone. 
"Is  he  gone  away?" 

"Well,  he's  out  on  North  Caney,"  old  Kimbro 
told  her,  "  a-workin'  at  Thatch  Daggett's  sawmill. 
Lance  can  make  good  money  whenever  he'll  work 
at  his  own  trade,  and  I  doubt  not  he'll  do  right 
well  at  this  sawmill  business,  too.  He  hain't  got 
the  land  cleared  over  where  you-all  was  livin'  that 
he  ought  to  have,  an'  I  think  it's  better  for  you 
to  stay  on  with  us  a  while  —  we're  sure  proud  to 
have  you." 

Callista's  eyes  filled  with  a  sudden  rush  of  tears. 


222  Lance  Cleaverage 

Kimbro  did  not  explain  to  her  that  Sylvane  had 
gone  to  see  his  brother.  He  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  little  roll  of  money. 

"Lance  sent  you  this,"  he  said.  "He  never 
had  time  to  write  any  letter.  My  son  Lance  is  a 
mighty  poor  correspondent  at  the  best;  but  he 
sent  you  this,  and  he  bade  Sylvane  to  tell  you  that 
you  was  to  buy  what  you  needed  at  Derf 's  store, 
an'  that  he'd  hope  to  send  you  money  from  time 
to  time  as  you  should  have  use  for  it." 

Callista  looked  on  the  ground  and  said  nothing. 
And  so  it  was  settled.  The  comfortable,  new, 
well-fitted  home  at  the  head  of  Lance's  Laurel 
was  closed,  and  Callista  lived  in  the  shabby, 
ruinous  dwelling  of  her  father-in-law.  The  help 
that  she  could  offer  in  the  way  of  provisions  was 
welcome.  To  Roxy  Griever,  she  had  always  been 
an  ideal,  a  pattern  of  perfection,  and  now  they 
made  a  sort  of  queen  of  her.  The  widow  be- 
grudged her  nothing  and  waited  on  her  hand  and 
foot.  Polly  followed  her  around  and  served  her 
eagerly,  admiringly;  but  most  astonishing  of  all, 
Mary  Ann  Martha  would  be  good  for  her,  and  was 
ready  to  do  anything  to  attract  her  notice. 
Sometimes  Callista  seemed  to  want  the  child 
with  her;  and  sometimes  when  the  little  girl  looked 
at  her  with  Lance's  eyes,  and  spoke  out  suddenly 
in  his  defiant  fashion,  Callista  would  wince  as 
though  she  had  been  struck  at,  and  send  Mary 
Ann  Martha  away  almost  harshly. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    STUBBORN    HEART. 

f^ALLISTA  never  referred  to  what  Kimbro 
^-^  Cleaverage  had  told  her;  but  she  presently 
began,  of  necessity,  to  buy  some  things  at  the 
store  for  her  own  use,  where  she  had  formerly 
purchased  only  that  which  would  make  good  her 
stay  with  her  father-in-law. 

The  wild,  cool,  shower-dashed,  sun-dappled, 
sweet-scented,  growing  days  of  spring  followed 
each  other,  passing  into  weeks,  months,  until  mid- 
summer, with  its  pause  in  rural  life,  was  come. 
Octavia  Gentry,  who  was  a  little  out  of  health, 
had  sent  word  again  and  again  that  she  wanted 
Callista  to  come  home.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning 
in  the  deep  calm  of  July  when  she  finally  came 
over  herself  to  the  Cleaverage  place  to  try  to 
fetch  her  daughter. 

The  thrush's  song  that  waked  Callista  that 
morning  at  sunrise,  rang  as  keenly  cool  as  ever; 
but  the  frogs  were  silenced,  and  the  whirr  of  the 
"dry-fly"  was  heard  everywhere  instead.  Gloss 
of  honey-dew  was  on  the  oak  and  hickory  leaves, 
and  the  blue  air  veiling  the  forest  shadows  spoke 
of  late  summer.  The  morning  was  languid  with 
heat ;  the  breakfast  smoke  had  risen  straight  into 

223 


224  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  dawn,  and  the  day  burnt  its  way  forward 
without  dew  or  breeze;  hills  velvet-blue,  clouds 
motionless  over  the  motionless  tree-tops,  toned  with 
mellow  atmospheric  tints  that  were  yet  not  the 
haze  that  would  follow  in  autumn.  One  or  two 
neighbors  had  strolled  in,  and  about  mid-forenoon 
Ajax  Gentry  and  his  daughter-in-law  drove  up  in 
the  buckboard  and  old  Kimbro  and  Sylvane  went 
out  trying  to  pretend  surprise,  yet  Callista  knew 
all  the  time  that  the  meeting  had  been  arranged 
-  that  her  people  were  expected . 

"  Honey ! ' '  Her  mother  took  her  into  a  reproach- 
ful embrace,  and  then  held  her  back  and  looked  at 
her,  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  "  honey  — I've 
come  for  you.  Me  and  gran'pappy  is  a-goin'  to  take 
you  right  home  with  us  when  we  go  this  evenin'. 
Git  your  things  a-ready.  Me  with  but  one  child 
on  this  earth,  and  her  a-lookin'  forward  to  what 
you  air,  and  to  stay  with  —  well,  of  course,  not 
strangers  —  but  with  other  folks!  " 

But  Octavia  Gentry's  pleadings  were  hushed  in 
her  throat  —  the  preacher's  tall  old  gray  mule  and 
dilapidated  wagon  was  seen  stopping  at  the  gate. 
He  had  not  been  expected,  and  his  arrival  brought 
a  sense  of  apprehension  —  almost  of  dismay. 
Every  one  dreaded  lest  the  dour  old  man  comment 
openly  and  bitterly  upon  the  pitiful  state  of 
Callista's  affairs.  Not  often  had  he  been  known  to 
spare  the  "  I  told  you  so."  Drumright  had  brought 
his  wife  and  brood  of  younger  children,  and  from 


The  Stubborn  Heart  225 

the  moment  of  their  advent  the  house  was  vocal 
with  them  from  end  to  end.  Elvira  Drumright  in- 
evitably reminded  one  of  a  small  clucking  hen  with 
a  train  of  piping  chickens  after  her.  The  deep  male 
note  was  missing  in  the  whiffle  of  sound  that  fretted 
Callista's  ear;  after  unhitching  the  preacher's  mule 
and  turning  him  in  the  lot,  the  men  had  loitered 
—  no  doubt  because  of  a  lingering  dread  of  the 
women's  activities  in  the  house  —  to  lean  against 
trees  and  the  fences,  talking  of  neighborhood  mat- 
ters. Some  of  the  elders  sauntered  over  to  inspect 
a  wrongly  dished  wheel  on  a  new  wagon,  and  talked 
for  twenty  minutes  of  this  phenomenon  alone. 
They  were  joined  here  by  Flenton  Hands,  who 
came  riding  down  the  road,  and  went  so  wistfully 
slow  as  he  passed  the  place  that  Kimbro  could  not 
forbear  to  hail  him  and  bid  him  light  and  come  in. 

It  was  a  typical  summer  Sunday  at  Kimbro 
Cleaverage's,  and  did  its  part  at  explaining  the 
always  cruelly  straitened  means  of  the  household. 
Boys  were  pitching  horseshoes  in  the  open  space 
beyond  the  barn,  uncertain  whether  or  not  to 
quit  on  account  of  the  preacher.  The  hot,  white 
dust  lay  in  the  road;  the  hot,  clear  air  brooded 
above  the  tree-tops. 

Inside  the  house,  the  women  in  the  kitchen  com- 
pared quilt  patterns  and  talked  chickens,  combin- 
ing much  gossip  with  the  dinner  getting. 

Finally  it  became  unbearable  to  Callista  to  feel 
that  her  affairs  were  being  more  or  less  covertly 


226  Lance  Cleaverage 

inspected  from  all  the  different  angles  and  points  of 
view  possible  to  the  visitors.  Passing  through  the 
kitchen,  she  possessed  herself  of  the  water  bucket 
and  slipped  off  down  to  the  far  spring.  People 
did  not  often  bring  water  from  this  place.  Its 
clear,  cool  trickle  had  a  medicinal  tang,  and  there 
was  red  iron-rust  around  the  edges  of  its  basin. 
She  sat  down  in  the  spring  hollow  on  the  cool  moss 
with  big  ferns  coming  up  about  her.  Remem- 
brance was  strong  within  her  of  that  black,  raw 
morning  in  April  when  she  had  lingered  desper- 
ately here,  and  she  looked  long  at  the  Judas  tree 
beneath  which  she  had  stood. 

The  alders  raised  a  tent  over  the  basin,  a  tenderly 
shadowed  dome,  through  the  midst  of  which  the 
little-used  spring-path  made  a  bright  green  vista 
like  a  pleached  alley.  And  down  this  way  she  was 
presently  aware  of  Sylvane  walking,  his  head 
thrown  back,  his  clear  whistle  coming  to  her  before 
she  got  the  sound  of  his  feet.  She  shivered  a 
little.  The  tune  he  whistled  had  in  it  reminis- 
cences of  Lance's  "How  many  years,  how  many 
miles?" 

"You  here,  Callisty  ?"  asked  the  boy,  parting  the 
branches,  and  finally  coming  shyly  closer  to  seat 
himself  on  the  bank  below  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  get  shut  of  all  the  folks, "  she  said, 
her  brooding  eyes  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  "  Oh, 
not  you,  Sylvane  —  the  rest  of  them  talk  so  much." 

The  boy  smiled  uncertainly. 


The  Stubborn  Heart  227 

"  Well,  I  —  reckon  I  was  aimin'  to  sorter  talk, 
too,  Callisty,"  be  began  timidly.  "I  'lowed  to 
tell  you  about  that  place  where  Lance  is  a-workin'. 
Hit's  been  some  time  now,  an'  I  ain't  never  said 
nothin'  to  ye  —  I  didn't  want  to  pester  ye." 

Poor  Sylvane  was  trying,  in  the  mountain  phrase, 
"to  make  fine  weather,  an'  hit  a-rainin'."  She 
made  no  movement  to  hush  him,  and  he  even 
thought  she  listened  with  some  eagerness. 

"They,  "  he  began  with  hesitation,  watching  her 
face,  "they're  a-gettin'  out  railroad  ties  now. 
That  makes  the  work  mighty  heavy.  It  takes 
Lance  and  Bob  and  Andy  to  run  the  mill  —  and 
sometimes  they  have  to  have  help.  They've  got 
generally  as  many  as  eight  or  ten  loggers  and  woods- 
men. They  just  get  the  logs  up  any  way  they  can. 
Last  week  Lance  got  his  foot  hurt  in  a  log  bunk 
that  he  fixed  up  on  the  running  gears  of  two  wagons. 
They  wanted  me  to  come  and  drive.  They  do  a 
lot  of  snaking  out  the  logs  without  any  wagon  at 
all.  Reelfoot  Dawson  is  the  best  teamster  they've 
got.  That  yoke  of  steers  he  has  can  snake  logs 
out  of  places  where  a  team  of  mules  or  horses 
couldn't  so  much  as  get  in." 

Callista  sighed  and  turned  impatiently  towards 
her  young  brother-in-law. 

"Where  do  the  men  live?"  she  asked  finally, 
very  low,  as  though  half -unwilling  to  do  so. 

"Well,  Daggett  ain't  makin'  what  he  expected 
to,  and  first  they  had  to  camp  and  cook  and  do  for 


228  Lance  Cleavcrage 

theirselves.  Now  they've  built  shacks  —  out'n 
the  flawed  boards,  you  know  —  and  all  of  'em 
fetched  a  quilt  or  a  blanket  or  such  from  home,  so 
they  can  roll  up  at  night  on  the  floor.  Fletch 
Daggett's  wife  is  cooking  for  'em.  The  day  I  was 
there  they  had  white  beans  and  corn  bread  —  and 
a  little  coffee.  She's  a  mighty  pore  cook,  and  she's 
got  three  mighty  small  chaps  under  foot." 

Callista's  mind  went  to  the  new,  clean,  well- 
arranged  little  home  on  Lance's  Laurel.  Did  old 
Fletch  Daggett's  slovenly,  overworked  young 
wife  cook  any  worse  than  she,  Callista,  had  been 
able  to? 

"It's  hot  in  them  board  shacks,"  Sylvane  went 
on  reflectively;  "the  hottest  place  I  ever  was  in. 
Somebody  stole  Lance's  comb.  There  ain't  but 
one  wash  pan  —  he  goes  down  to  the  branch  — 
and  he  hid  his  comb.  It's  a  rough  place.  They 
fight  a  good  deal." 

And  this  was  what  Lance  had  preferred  to  her 
and  to  the  home  he  had  built  for  her.  She  fell 
into  such  a  study  over  it  that  Sylvane's  voice  quite 
startled  her  when  he  said, 

"I  —  I  aimed  to  ask  ye,  Callisty  —  did  you 
want  me  to  take  word  for  Lance  to  come  home?" 

"No,"  she  answered  him  very  low.  "It  ain't 
my  business  to  bid  Lance  Cleaverage  come  to  his 
own  home.  Don't  name  it  to  me  again,  Sylvane, 
please." 

The  lad  regarded  her  anxiously.   More  than  once 


The  Stubborn  Heart  229 

he  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  only  to  close  them 
again.  Slowly  the  red  surged  up  over  his  tanned 
young  face,  until  it  burned  dark  crimson  to  the 
roots  of  his  brown  hair. 

"I  —  you  —  w'y,  Callisty,"  he  faltered  in  a 
choked,  husky  whisper,  his  eyes  beseeching  for- 
giveness for  such  an  offense  against  mountaineer 
reserve  and  delicacy. 

Her  own  pale  cheeks  flushed  faintly  as  she  began 
to  see  what  was  in  the  poor  boy's  mind ;  but  her 
eyes  did  not  flinch,  while  in  an  agony  of  sympathy 
and  burning  embarrassment  he  whispered, 

"After  a  while  —  Sis'  Callie  —  you'll  have 
obliged  —  after  a  while  you'll  surely  send  such 
word." 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  long 
minute,  then, 

"I  never  will,"  said  Callista,  in  a  low,  dreary, 
implacable  voice.  "You  can  fill  my  bucket  and 
carry  it  up  for  me  if  you're  a  mind,  Sylvane,  I'll 
set  here  a  spell." 

Callista  appeared  only  briefly  at  the  dinner 
table,  where  she  said  little  and  ate  less,  soon 
slipping  away  again  to  her  retreat  by  the  far 
spring. 

After  the  meal,  the  dark  court -like  vista  of  the 
entry  invited  the  guests ;  from  thence  a  murmur 
of  conversation  sounded  through  all  the  drowsy 
afternoon,  —  the  slow  desultory  conversation  of 
mountaineers.  Even  the  play  of  the  children  was 


23°  Lance  Cleaverage 

hushed.  It  was  one  of  the  few  hot  days  of  the 
mountain  season.  All  the  forest  drowsed  in  a 
vast  sun-dream.  The  Cleaverage  place  itself,  for 
all  its  swarming  life,  seemed  asleep  too.  Chickens 
picked  and  wallowed  in  the  dust;  there  were  no 
birds,  except  a  cardinal  whistling  from  the  hill. 
The  loosed  plow-horses  drooped  in  the  stable 
shadow,  listless  and  ennuye,  looking  as  if  they 
would  rather  be  at  work.  Only  wandering  shotes 
seemed  undisturbed  by  the  broad  white  glare  of 
the  sunlight. 

Octavia  Gentry  went  home  that  day  from  the 
Cleaverage  cabin  in  tears.  She  waited  long  and 
patiently  an  opportunity  to  speak  alone  with  her 
daughter;  but  when,  toward  evening,  enormous 
flowers  of  cumuli  blossomed  slowly,  augustly,  in 
the  west,  flushed  petal  on  petal  opening,  to  be 
pushed  back  by  the  next  above  it,  and  rolling 
gently  away  into  shadows  delicately  gray,  she  went 
uneasily  out  into  the  yard  and  called  to  old  Ajax. 
While  they  were  talking  a  heavier  cloud,  crowding 
darkly  against  the  western  sun,  began  to  send 
forth  long  diapason  tones  of  thunder.  Drum- 
right  got  suddenly  to  his  feet  and  hurried  to 
"ketch  out"  his  mule,  while  his  wife  rounded  up 
the  children.  At  noon  the  heat  had  been  palpi- 
tant. Now  a  shadow  bore  relief  over  all  the  land ; 
a  breeze  flew  across  the  wood,  turning  up  the 
whitish  under  sides  of  the  leaves ;  and  before  they 
could  get  started  there  was  a  quick  thrill  of  rain  — 


The  Stubborn  Heart  23* 

tepid,  perpendicular  —  and  then  the  sun  looking 
out  again  within  twenty  minutes. 

The  shower  brought  them  all  indoors.  Callista 
came  reluctantly  from  the  thicket  by  the  far 
spring-branch  where  she  had  been  lingering. 
Octavia  made  her  last  appeal  publicly,  since  it 
might  not  otherwise  be  spoken  —  and  was  denied. 
As  old  Ajax  helped  her  into  the  buckboard,  some- 
thing in  her  tear-disfigured  face  seemed  to  anger 
him. 

"Well,  ye  spiled  the  gal  rotten!"  he  said  testily, 
without  introduction  or  preface,  climbing  mean- 
while to  his  seat  beside  her.  "Ye  spiled  Callisty 
rotten,  that's  what  ye  did !  And  then  ye  give  her 
to  one  of  the  cussedest  highheaded  fellers  I  ever 
seen  —  a  man  that'd  as  soon  take  a  charge  o' 
buckshot  as  a  dare  —  a  man  that'd  die  before  he'd 
own  he's  beat.  Lance  Cleaverage  ain't  the  mean- 
est man  in  the  world,  and  Callisty  would  do  very 
well  if  she  could  be  made  to  behave;  but  the  two 
of  'em—." 

He  sighed  impatiently,  shook  his  head,  and 
flogged  the  old  horse  gently  and  steadily  without 
in  the  least  affecting  its  gait.  Suddenly  he  spoke 
out  again  with  a  curious  air  of  unwillingness  and 
at  much  more  length  than  Grandfather  Gentry 
usually  did. 

"  Them  two  was  borned  and  made  for  each  other. 
Ef  they  can  ever  fight  it  out  and  git  to  agree,  hit'll 
be  one  o'  the  finest  matches  anybody  ever  seed. 


232  Lance  Cleaverage 

But  whilst  they're  a  fightin'  it  out  —  huh-uh, "  — 
his  face  drew  into  a  look  of  wincing  sympathy  - 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  want  ary  one  of  'em  under  my 
roof.  I  used  to  raise  a  good  deal  of  Cain  o'  my 
own  —  yes,  I  played  the  davil  a-plenty.  I  got 
through  with  that  as  best  I  might.  I'm  a  old  man 
now.  I  like  to  see  some  peace.  I  did  tell  you  that 
you  could  bid  Callisty  come  home  with  us;  but 
she's  done  told  you  no  —  an'  I  ain't  sorry.  She's 
the  onliest  granchild  I've  got  left,  an'  —  I  think  a 
heap  of  her.  If  she  was  to  come  on  her  own 
motions  —  that  would  be  different.  But  having 
spiled  her  as  you  have  did,  Octavy,  best  is  that  you 
should  let  her  and  Lance  alone  for  a  spell. " 

His  daughter-in-law  looked  at  him  mutely  out 
of  her  reddened  eyes,  and  the  balance  of  the  drive 
was  made  in  silence. 

And  so  the  slow  summer  drew  forward,  Callista 
in  her  father-in-law's  house,  never  going  back  to 
the  cabin  at  the  head  of  Lance's  Laurel,  sending 
Polly  or  the  Widow  Griever  to  get  things  which 
she  now  and  again  needed  from  the  place;  Lance 
over  in  the  sawmill  camp,  working  brutally  hard, 
faring  wretchedly,  and  eating  his  heart  out  with 
what  he  hoped  was  a  brave  face. 

Sylvane  brought  him  almost  weekly  news.  He 
understood  that  Callista's  foot  never  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  home  he  had  built  for  her.  Ola 
Derf  hinted  that  the  young  wife  bought  recklessly 
at  the  store  —  and  got  snubbed  for  her  pains. 


The  Stubborn  Heart  233 

She  rode  out  once  or  twice  to  try  to  get  him  to 
come  and  play  for  a  dance;  but  he  shunned  the 
neighborhood  as  though  pestilence  were  in  it, 
and  gave  her  short  answers.  No  one  else  impor- 
tuned him.  Lance,  the  loath,  the  desired  and 
always  invited,  found  that  in  his  present  mood 
people  fell  away  from  him.  He  was  good  com- 
pany for  nobody,  not  even  for  the  rough  and  ready 
crowd  amongst  which  he  found  himself.  True, 
he  had  lived  hard,  and  been  a  famous  hunter,  able 
to  care  for  himself  in  any  environment;  but  the 
squalid  surroundings  of  the  sawmill  camp  were 
almost  as  foreign  to  his  fastidious  man's  way  of 
doing  things,  as  they  would  have  been  to  a  neat 
woman. 

So  he  grew  to  avoid  and  to  be  avoided ;  to  sit  at  a 
little  distance  from  his  mates  in  the  evening;  to 
drop  out  of  their  crude  attempts  at  merrymaking, 
to  hold  aloof  even  from  the  fighting.  He  was 
neither  quarrelsome  nor  gay,  but  sat  brooding, 
inert  yet  restless,  interrogating  the  future  with  an 
ever  sinking  heart.  Here  was  come  a  thing  into 
his  life  at  which  he  could  not  shrug  the  shoulder. 
He  could  not  fling  this  off  lightly  with  a  toss  of  the 
head  or  a  defiant,  "Have  it  as  you  please." 
What  was  he  to  do  ?  Was  he  not  man  enough  to 
rule  his  domestic  affairs  ?  Could  he  not  command 
the  events  and  individuals  of  his  own  household 
by  simply  being  himself  ?  To  go  to  Callista  and 
exert  authority  in  words,  by  overt  actions,  by  use 


234  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  force  —  this  was  not  his  ideal.  It  was  impossible 
to  him.  Well,  what  then  ?  Must  his  child  be  born 
under  the  roof  of  another? 

Summer  wore  to  autumn  with  all  its  solemn 
grandeur  of  coloring,  all  its  majestic  hush  and  blue 
silences  over  great  slopes  of  tapestried  mountains, 
and  still  the  question  was  unanswered.  Callista 
herself  was  in  the  mood  when  she  found  it  hard  to 
think  of  anything  beyond  her  own  body,  the  little 
garment  she  was  fashioning,  the  day  which  rounded 
itself  from  morning  into  night  again. 

And  now  came  a  new  complication.  Daggett^as- 
serted  that  he  had  no  money  to  pay .  "I'm  a-d  ickerin ' 
with  the  company,"  he  told  his  men.  I've  got 
good  hopes  of  sellin'  out  to  'em.  Them  that  stays 
by  me,  will  get  all  that's  due  an'  comin' ;  but  I 
hain't  got  a  cent  now;  an'  a  feller  that  quits  me 
when  I  cain't  he'p  myse'f  --  I'll  never  trouble  to 
try  to  pay  him." 

Now  what  to  do.  Credit  at  the  store  was  all 
very  well  for  Callista's  present  needs ;  but  Lance 
Cleaverage's  wife  must  have  a  sum  of  money 
put  at  her  disposal  for  the  time  which  was  ap- 
proaching. Lance  walked  from  North  Caney  to 
Hepzibah  one  Saturday  night  to  offer  Satan  for 
sale,  and  found  the  black  horse  lame.  The  man 
who  had  agreed  to  buy  him  expressed  a  willingness 
to  take  Cindy  in  his  place  —  the  black  filly  which 
he  had,  in  the  first  days  of  their  marriage,  given  to 
Callista  for  her  own  use  —  presented  with  sweet 


The  Stubborn  Heart  235 

words  of  praise  of  his  bride's  beauty  and  her  charm- 
ing appearance  on  the  horse  —  a  lover's  gift,  a 
bridegroom's.  Yet  the  money  must  be  had,  and 
the  next  time  Sylvane  came  across  to  the  lumber 
camp,  he  carried  back  with  him  and  put  into  his 
young  sister-in-law's  listless  hand  the  poor  price 
of  the  little  filly. 

Nothing  roused  Callista  these  days,  not  even 
when  Flenton  Hands  went  down  to  the  Settlement 
and  bought  Cindy  from  the  man  who  had  pur- 
chased her.  That  was  his  account  of  the  trans- 
action, but  Sylvane  said  indignantly  to  his  father 
that  he  believed  Flenton  Hands  got  that  feller  to 
buy  Lance's  filly.  Flenton  rode  up  on  his  own 
rawboned  sorrel,  leading  the  little  black  mare  who 
whinnied  and  put  forward  her  ears  to  Callista's 
caresses. 

"Yes,  I  did  —  I  bought  her,"  he  repeated.  "I 
hadn't  nary  bit  of  use  for  such  a  animal,  but  I 
couldn't  see  yo'  horse  —  yo's,  Callista  —  in  the 
hands  of  a  man  like  Snavely." 

Callista  held  a  late  apple  to  the  velvety, 
nuzzling  mouth  that  came  searching  in  her  palms 
for  largess.  She  made  no  inquiry,  and  Flenton 
Hands  went  on. 

"  Snavely's  the  meanest  man  to  stock  that  I  ever 
did  see.  He  overworks  and  he  underfeeds,  and  he 
makes  up  the  lack  of  oats  with  a  hickory  —  that's 
what  he  does.  He'd  nigh  about  'a'  killed  this  little 
critter,  come  spring." 


236  Lance  Cleaverage 

And  still  Callista  had  nothing  to  offer. 

"How's  all  your  folks,  Flent?"  she  said  finally. 

"Tol'able  —  jest  tol'able, "  Hands  repeated  the 
formula  absently.  "Callisty,  ef  you'll  take  the 
little  mare  from  me  as  a  gift,  she's  yourn." 

Lance's  wife  drew  back  with  a  burning  blush. 

"Take  Cindy  —  from  you?"  she  echoed  sharply. 
There  rushed  over  her  heart,  like  an  air  from  a 
kinder  world,  memory  of  that  exquisite  hour  when 
Lance  had  given  Cindy  to  her  - —  Lance  whose 
words  of  tenderness  and  praise,  his  kiss,  the  kind- 
ling look  of  his  eye,  could  so  crown  and  sceptre  her 
he  loved.  Her  lips  set  hard. 

"I'd  be  proud  to  have  ye  take  her,"  Flenton 
repeated. 

"Thank  you  —  no,"  returned  Callista,  briefly, 
haughtily. 

Her  small  head  was  crested  with  the  movement 
that  always  fascinated  the  man  before  her.  That 
unbending  pride  of  hers,  to  him  who  had  in  fact  no 
real  self-respect,  was  inordinately  compelling.  He 
had  felt  sure  she  would  not  take  the  horse,  and  he 
was  the  freer  in  offering  the  gift. 

"Well,  ef  ye  won't,  ye  won't"  he  said  resignedly. 
"  But  ef  you  ever  change  yo'  mind,  Callisty  —  re- 
member that  Cindy  and  me  is  both  a-waitin'  for 
ye."  And  with  this  daring  and  enigmatic  speech, 
he  wheeled  the  sorrel  and  rode  away,  the  little 
black's  light  feet  pattering  after  the  clumsier 
animal. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LANCE   CLEAVERAGE'S   SON. 

SUMMER  lasted  far  into  fall  that  year,  its 
procession  of  long,  fair,  dreamful  days  like  a 
strand  of  sumptuous  beads.  At  the  last  of  Novem- 
ber came  a  dash  of  rain,  frost,  and  again  long, 
warm  days,  with  the  mist  hanging  blue  in  the 
valleys  as  though  the  camp-fires  of  autumn 
smoked  in  their  blaze  of  scarlet  and  gold,  their 
shadows  of  ochre  and  umber. 

"But  we're  goin'  to  ketch  it  for  this  here," 
Roxy  Griever  kept  saying  pessimistically.  "  Bound 
to  git  about  so  much  cold  in  every  year,  and  ef 
you  have  summer  time  mighty  nigh  on  up  to 
Christmas,  hit '11  freeze  yo'  toes  when  it  does  come." 

Callista  held  to  her  resolution  to  send  no  mes- 
sage to  the  sawmill  on  North  Caney.  But  the 
family  had  debated  the  matter,  consulting  with 
Lance  himself,  and  agreeing  to  summon  him  home, 
if  possible,  in  ample  season.  At  his  sister's  gloomy 
weather  predictions,  Sylvane  grew  uneasy  lest  the 
time  arrive  and  Lance  be  storm-stayed  in  Dag- 
get's  camp.  He  almost  resolved  to  go  and  fetch 
him  at  once,  and  run  the  chance  of  good  coming 
from  it.  But  the  spell  of  pleasant  weather  and  a 
press  of  work  put  it  out  of  his  mind.  Then  came  a 

237 


238  Lance  Cleaverage 

day  when  the  sun  rose  over  low-lying  clouds  into  a 
fleece  of  cirri  that  caught  aflame  with  his  mounting. 
The  atmosphere  thickened  slowly  hour  by  hour  into 
a  chill  mist  that,  toward  evening,  became  a  drizzle. 

"This  here's  only  the  beginning  of  worse,"  said 
Kimbro  at  the  supper  table.  "  Looks  to  me  like 
we're  done  with  Fall.  To-morrow  is  the  first  day 
o'  winter  —  and  you'll  see  it  will  be  winter  sure 
enough." 

At  dawn  next  morning  the  wind  rose,  threshing 
the  woods  with  whips  of  stringing  rain.  Stock 
about  the  lean  little  farms  began  to  huddle  into 
shelter.  Belated  workers  at  tasks  which  should 
have  been  laid  by,  found  it  hard  to  make  head 
against  the  wild  weather.  The  men  at  the  saw- 
mill kindled  a  wonderful  radiance  of  hickory  fire 
in  the  great  chimney  which  Lance  had  built  more 
to  relieve  his  own  restlessness  than  with  any 
thought  of  their  comfort. 

"Why,  consarn  yo'  time!"  Blev  Straley  depre- 
cated as  he  edged  toward  it.  "A  man  cain'tset 
clost  enough  to  that  thar  fire  to  spit  in  hit!" 

Sylvane  knew  when  this  day  came,  that  he  must 
go  for  his  brother.  About  noon  the  rain  ceased, 
and,  with  its  passing,  the  wind  began  to  blow 
.harder.  At  first  it  leaped  in  over  the  hills  like  a 
freed  spirit,  glad  and  wild,  tossing  the  wet  leaves  to 
the  flying  clouds,  laughing  in  the  round  face  of  the 
hunter's  moon  which  rose  that  evening  full  and  red. 
But  it  grew  and  grew  like  the  bottle  genii  drunken 


Lance  Cleaverage's  Son          239 

with  strength ;  its  laughter  became  a  rudeness,  its 
pranks  malicious ;  it  was  a  dancing  satyr,  roughly 
riotous,  but  still  full  of  living  warmth  and  glee.  It 
shouted  down  the  chimney;  it  clattered  the  dry 
vines  by  the  porch,  and  wrenched  at  everything 
left  loose-ended  about  the  place;  it  whooped  and 
swung  through  the  straining  forest.  But  by 
night  it  sank  to  a  whisper,  as  Sylvane  finally  made 
his  way  into  the  camp.  The  next  morning  dawn 
walked  in  peace  like  a  conquering  spirit  across  the 
whiteness  of  snow,  wind -woven  overnight  into  great 
laps  and  folds  of  sculpture.  As  the  day  lengthened 
the  cold  strengthened.  Again  the  wind  wakened 
and  now  it  was  a  wild  sword  song  in  the  tree  tops. 
Ice  glittered  under  the  rays  of  a  sun  which  warmed 
nothing.  It  was  a  day  of  silver  and  steel.  The 
frost  bit  deep ;  under  the  crisping  snow  the  ground 
rang  hard  as  iron.  Wagons  on  the  big  road  could 
be  heard  for  a  mile.  As  the  two  brothers  passed 
Daggett's  cow  lot  on  setting  forth,  with  its  one  lean 
heifer  standing  humped  and  shivering  in  the  angle 
of  the  wall,  Sylvane  spoke. 

"Reckon  we'll  have  pretty  hard  work  gettin' 

crost  the  gulch."     He  glanced  at  Lance's  shoes. 

"This  here  snow  is  right  wet,  too  —  but  hit's  a 

freezin'.     Maybe  we'd  better  go  back  an'  wait  till 

to-morrow  —  hit'll  be  solid  by  then. " 

"  I  aimed  to  go  to-day, "  said  Lance,  quite  as  if 
Sylvane  had  not  come  for  him.  "I'll  stop  a-past 
Derf's  and  get  me  a  pair  of  shoes,  Buddy." 


240  Lance  Cleaverage 

No  more  was  said,  and  they  fared  on.  There  was 
no  cheerful  sound  of  baying  dogs  as  they  passed  the 
wayside  cabins.  The  woods  were  ghostly  still. 
The  birds,  the  small  furry  wild  creatures  crept  into 
burrow  and  inner  fastness,  under  the  impish 
architecture  of  the  ice  and  snow.  Going  up  past 
Taylor  Peavey's  board  shanty,  they  found  that 
feckless  householder  outside,  grabbling  about  in  the 
snow  for  firewood. 

"My  wife,  she's  down  sick  in  the  bed,"  he  told 
them ;  "  an'  I  never  'lowed  it  would  come  on  to  be  as 
chilly  as  what  it  is ;  an'  her  a-lyin'  there  like  she  is, 
she's  got  both  her  feet  froze  tol'able  bad." 

The  Cleaverage  brothers  paused  in  their  des- 
perate climb  to  help  haul  down  a  leaning  pine  tree 
near  the  flimsy  shack.  They  left  the  slack  Peavy 
making  headway  with  a  dull  axe  whose  strokes 
followed  them  hollowly  as  they  once  more  entered 
the  white  mystery  and  wonder  of  the  forest. 

Arrival  at  Derf's  place  was  almost  like  rinding 
warmer  weather.  The  half  dozen  buildings  were 
thick  and  well  tightened,  and  the  piles  of  firewood 
heaped  handy  were  like  structures  themselves. 

"  It's  sin  that  prospers  in  this  world,"  jeered  the 
gentle  Sylvane,  blue  with  cold,  heartsick  as  he 
looked  at  his  brother's  set  face,  poor  clothing  and 
broken  shoes.  Lance  stepped  ahead  of  the  boy, 
silent  but  unsubdued,  bankrupt  of  all  but  the 
audacious  spirit  within  him. 

Garrett  Derf  admitted  them  to  the  store,  which 


Lance  Cleaverage's  Son  241 

was  closed  on  account  of  the  bitter  weather  that 
kept  everybody  housed.  But  there  was  a  roaring 
fire  in  the  barrel  stove  in  its  midst,  and  after  a  time 
the  silent  Lance  approached  it  warily,  putting  out 
first  one  foot  and  then  the  other.  Derf ,  in  an  over- 
coat, stood  across  by  the  rude  desk,  fiddling  some- 
what uneasily. 

"  I  hain't  figured  out  your  account,  Cleaverage," 
he  observed  at  last;  "but  I  reckon  you  hain't 
much  overdrawn.  Likely  you'll  be  able  to  even 
it  up  befo'  spring  —  ef  Miz.  Cleaverage  don't  buy 
quite  so  free  as  what  she  has  been  a-doin'." 

There  was  a  long,  significant  silence,  the  wind 
crying  at  the  eaves,  and  bringing  down  a  fine  rattle 
of  dry  snow  to  drum  on  the  hollow  roof  above  their 
heads.  At  first,  neither  of  the  half -perished  men 
looked  up,  but  Sylvane  instinctively  drew  a  little 
nearer  to  his  brother. 

"W'y  —  w'y,  Mr.  Derf,"  he  began,  with  an 
indignant  tremble  in  his  boyish  voice,  "I've 
fetched  every  order  for  Sis'  Callie,  and  packed  home 
every  dollar's  worth  she  bought.  Hit  don't  look 
to  me  like  they  could  amount  to  as  much  as  Lance's 
wages.  Lance  is  obliged  to  have  a  pair  of  shoes." 

Lance  cast  a  fiery,  silencing  glance  at  his  brother. 

"I  ain't  obliged  to  have  anything  that  ain't 
comin'  to  me,"  he  said  sharply.  " Callisty's  bought 
nothin'  that  wasn't  proper.  Ef  she  needed  what 
was  here  —  that's  all  right  with  me,"  and  he  turned 
and  walked  steadily  from  the  room. 


242  Lance  Cleaverage 

* 

"Hey  —  hold  on,  you  Lance  Cleaverage!" 
Derf  called  after  him.  "  Thar  you  go  —  like  some- 
body wasn't  a-doin'  ye  right.  I'll  trust  you  for  a 
pair  of  shoes."  • 

In  the  wide-flung  doorway,  Lance  wheeled  and 
looked  back  at  him,  a  gallant  figure  against  the 
flash  of  snow  outside  —  gallant  in  spite  of  his 
broken  shoes  and  the  tattered  coat  on  his  back. 

"Go  on,  Buddy,"  he  said  gently,  pointing 
Sylvane  past  him.  Then  he  turned  to  Derf. 

"You  will?"  he  inquired  of  the  man  who,  he 
knew,  was  trying  to  rob  him.  "You'll  trust  me? 
Well,  Garrett  Derf,  it'll  be  a  colder  day  than  this 
when  I  come  to  you  and  ask  for  trust."  And 
without  another  word  he  stepped  out  into  the  snow 
and  set  his  face  toward  his  father's  house.  He 
even  passed  the  boy  with  a  kind  of  smile,  and  some- 
thing of  the  old  light  squaring  of  the  shoulder. 

"It  ain't  so  very  far  now,  Buddy,"  he  said. 

Sylvane  followed  doggedly.  The  last  few  miles 
were  merely  a  matter  of  endurance,  the  rapid 
motion  serving  to  keep  the  warmth  of  life  in  their 
two  bodies. 

Octavia  Gentry,  coming  to  the  back  door  of  the 
Cleaverage  home,  found  Lance  sitting  on  a  little 
platform  there,  rubbing  his  feet  with  snow,  while 
Sylvane  crouched  on  the  steps,  getting  off  his  own 
shoes. 

"I  thought  I'd  be  on  the  safe  side,"  Lance  said 
in  an  unshaken  voice.  "They  might  be  frost-bit 


Lance  Cleaverage's  Son          243 

and  then  they  might  not.     No  need  to  go  to  the 
fire  with  'em  till  I  can  get  some  feeling. in  'em. 
How"   —and  now  the  tones  faltered  a  little  - 
"how  is  she?" 

Octavia's  horrified  eyes  went  from  the  feet  his 
busy  hands  were  chafing  with  snow,  to  his  lean, 
brown,  young  face,  where  the  skin  seemed  to  cling 
to  the  bone,  and  the  eyes  were  quite  too  large. 

"She's  doin'  well,"  choked  the  mother.  "The 
doctor's  been  gone  five  hours  past.  It's  a  boy, 
honey.  They're  both  asleep  now.  Oh,  my  poor 
Lance  —  my  poor  Lance ! " 

A  sudden  glow  shone  in  the  hazel  eyes.  Lance 
turned  and  smiled  at  her  so  that  the  tears  ran  over 
her  face.  He  set  down  the  lump  of  snow  he  had 
just  taken  up  in  his  hand,  and  rising  began  to  stamp 
softly. 

"It's  all  right,  mother,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that 
was  almost  gay.  "I'm  'feared  Sylvane's  worse 
off." 

But  it  appeared  on  inquiry  that  Sylvane's  shoes 
had  proved  almost  water  tight,  and  that  a  brief  run 
in  the  snow  was  all  he  wanted  to  send  him  in  the 
house  tingling  with  warmth.  Roxy  Griever,  hear- 
ing the  voices,  had  hurried  out.  Her  troubled 
gaze  went  over  Lance's  half  perished  face  and 
body,  the  whole  worn,  poor,  indomitable  aspect  of 
him,  even  while  she  greeted  him.  With  an  almost 
frightened  look,  she  turned  and  ran  into  the  house, 
crying  hastily, 


244  Lance  Cleaverage 

"I'll  have  some  hot  coffee  for  you-all  boys 
mighty  quick."  And  when  he  came  limping  in,  a 
few  minutes  later,  there  was  an  appetizing  steam 
from  the  hearth  where  Polly  crouched  beside  Mary 
Ann  Martha,  whispering  over  a  tale. 

Dry  foot-wear  was  found  for  the  newcomers,  and 
when  they  were  finally  seated  in  comfort  at  their 
food,  both  women  gazed  furtively  at  Lance's  thin 
cheeks,  the  long  unshorn  curls  of  his  hair,  and 
Octavia  wept  quietly.  When  he  had  eaten  and 
sat  for  a  little  time  by  the  fire,  he  caught  at  his 
mother-in-law's  dress  as  she  went  past,  and  asked 
with  an  upward  glance  that  melted  her  heart, 

"How  soon  may  I  go  in  thar?" 

They  both  glanced  toward  the  door  of  the  spare 
room. 

"I  reckon  you  could  go  in  right  now,  ef  you'd 
be  mighty  quiet,"  Octavia  debated,  full  of  sym- 
pathy. "What  do  you  say,  Miz.  Griever?" 

"Well,  we  might  take  him  in  for  a  spell,  I 
reckon,"  Roxy  allowed  dubiously,  more  sensible 
to  the  importance  of  the  occasion,  when  men 
are  apt  to  be  hustled  about  and  treated  with  a 
lack  of  consideration  they  endure  at  no  other 
time. 

Lance  rose  instantly ;  his  hand  was  on  the  knob 
of  the  door  before  Roxy  and  Octavia  reached  him. 
When  they  did  so,  he  turned  sharply  and  cast  one 
swift  look  across  his  shoulder.  Without  a  word  his 
mother-in-law  drew  the  Widow  Griever  back. 


Lance  Cleaverage's  Son          245 

Lance  Cleaverage  entered  alone  the  chamber  that 
contained  his  wife  and  son. 

Closing  the  door  softly  behind  him,  he  came 
across  the  floor,  stepping  very  gently,  lest  he  waken 
the  sleepers  in  the  big  four-poster  bed.  When  he 
stood  at  last  beside  the  couch  and  looked  down  at 
them,  something  that  had  lived  strong  in  him  up 
to  this  moment  died  out,  and  its  place  was  taken  by 
something  else,  which  he  had  never  till  then  known. 

He  gazed  long  at  Callista's  face  on  the  pillow. 
She  was  very  thin,  his  poor  Callista;  her  temples 
showed  the  blue  veins,  the  long  oval  of  her  cheek 
was  without  any  bloom.  Beside  her,  in  the  curve 
of  her  arm,  lay  the  little  bundle  of  new  life.  By 
bending  forward,  he  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  tiny 
face,  and  a  sort  of  shock  went  through  him  at  the 
sight.  This  was  his  son  —  Lance  Cleaverage's 
son! 

With  deft  fingers  he  rolled  the  sheet  away  from 
the  baby's  countenance,  so  that  he  had  a  view  of 
both,  then  sinking  quietly  to  his  knees,  he  studied 
them.  Here  was  wife  and  child.  Confronting 
him  whose  boyish  folly  had  broken  up  the  home  on 
Lance's  Laurel,  was  the  immortal  problem  of  the 
race.  A  son  —  and  Lance  had  it  in  him,  when  life 
had  sufficiently  disciplined  that  wayward  pride  of 
his,  to  make  a  good  father  for  a  son.  Long  and 
silently  he  knelt  there,  communing  with  himself 
concerning  this  new  element  thrust  into  his  plan, 
this  candidate  for  citizenship  on  that  island  where 


246  Lance  Cleaverage 

he  had  once  figured  the  bliss  of  dwelling  alone  with 
Callista.  Gropingly  he  searched  for  the  clue  to 
what  his  own  attitude  should  now  be.  He  had 
lived  hard  and  gone  footsore  for  the  two  of  them. 
That  was  right,  wasn't  it  ?  A  man  must  do  his  part 
in  the  world.  His  own  ruthers  came  after  that. 

He  recognized  this  as  the  test.  Before,  it  had 
been  the  girl  to  be  won ;  the  bride,  still  to  be  wooed. 
In  outward  form  these  two  were  already  his ;  could 
he  make  and  hold  them  truly  his  own  ?  Could  he 
take  them  with  him  to  that  remote  place  where  his 
spirit  abode  so  often  in  loneliness  ? 

Callista 's  eyes,  wide  and  clear,  opened  and  fixed 
themselves  on  his.  For  some  time  she  lay  look- 
ing. She  seemed  to  be  adjusting  the  present  situ- 
ation. Then  with  a  little  whispered,  childish  cry, 
"Lance  —  oh,  Lance!"  she  put  out  feeble  arms  to 
him,  and  he  bent  his  face,  tear-wet,  to  hers. 


He  gazed  long  at  Callista's  face  on  the  pillow." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE     COASTS     OF     THE     ISLAND. 

LANCE  Cleaverage  remained  at  his  father's 
house  for  a  week,  saying  little,  assisting 
deftly  and  adequately  in  the  care  of  Callista, 
wondering  always  at  the  marvelous  newcomer, 
and  so  rulable,  so  helpful  and  void  of  offense,  that 
Roxy  had  her  rod  broken  in  her  hand,  and  was 
forced  to  an  unwilling  admiration  of  him. 

"  Looks  like  Sis'  Callie  is  about  to  be  the  makin' 
o'  Lance,"  she  told  her  father.  "I  believe  in  my 
soul  if  she  was  a  church  member  she'd  have  him 
convicted  of  sin  at  the  next  quarterly." 

Conviction  of  sin  was  always  sadly  lacking  in 
Lance;  he  was  aware  that  the  cards  sometimes 
went  against  him  in  the  game  of  life,  but  to  hint 
that  he  could  himself  be  blamed  with  it  was  to 
instantly  rouse  the  defiant  devil  that  counseled 
his  soul  ill.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  there  was  a 
little  family  conference,  very  sweet  and  harmon- 
ious, with  Callista  lying  propped  in  her  bed,  the 
baby  beside  her,  and  old  Kimbro  sitting  by  the 
fire,  while  Octavia  and  Roxy  worked  at  a  little 
garment  which  the  former  had  made  and  brought 
over,  and  which  did  not  quite  fit  the  boy.  Mary 
Ann  Martha,  absolutely  good  because  absolutely 

247 


248  Lance  Cleaverage 

happy,  lolled  luxuriously  in  her  Uncle  Lance's  lap, 
and  took  the  warmth  of  the  fire  on  her  fat  legs, 
while  she  occasionally  rolled  a  blissful  eye  toward 
the  face  above  her,  or  suddenly  shot  up  a  chubby 
hand  to  flap  against  his  cheek  or  chin  in  a  random 
caress.  Uncle  Lance  had  in  her  eyes  no  flaw. 
Others  might  criticise  him,  to  Mary  Ann  Martha 
it  was  given  to  see  only  his  perfections. 

"Yes,  son,"  old  Kimbro  concluded  what  he  had 
been  saying,  "  I  surely  would  go  back  to  Daggett's 
and  work  out  my  time.  Derf  can't  hold  to  what 
he  said.  I  had  Sylvane  bring  me  every  one  of 
those  orders  before  he  carried  them  to  the  store, 
and  I  copied  them  off  in  a  book.  Garrett  Derf 
will  have  obliged  to  back  down  from  that  talk  he 
had  the  day  you  was  there  —  likely  he'll  say  he 
was  jest  a-funnin'.  As  for  Thatch  Daggett,  the 
Company  is  behind  him  now,  and  he'll  have  obliged 
to  pay,  come  Spring.  You  need  the  money.  You 
can't  do  nothin'  on  your  place  now.  I'd  go  back 
and  work  it  out  at  Daggett's." 

Like  many  another  man  with  the  reputation  of 
being  impractical,  old  Kimbro's  advice  on  financial 
matters  was  always  particularly  sound.  From 
his  warm  place  by  the  fire,  Lance  flashed  a  swift 
glance  across  at  his  wife  and  child .  Callista  was  so 
absorbed  in  the  baby  that  she  had  paid  small 
attention  to  what  her  father-in-law  was  saying. 
Well  —  and  the  color  deepened  on  Lance's  brown 
cheek  —  if  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her,  he 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island          249 

would  not  urge  it  upon  her  attention.  But 
Sylvane,  watching,  came  to  the  rescue. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  Sis'  Gallic?"  he 
suggested  gently. 

"About  what?"  inquired  Callista;  and  then 
when  she  was  enlightened,  "Oh,  I  reckon  Father 
Cleaverage  knows  best.  I  shouldn't  want  to 
move  the  baby  in  cold  weather.  If  you're  a  mind 
to  go  over  and  finish  out,  Lance,  I'll  be  in  the  house 
and  ready  for  you,  come  Spring,"  and  she  looked 
kindly  at  her  husband. 

And  so  it  was  settled.  Lance  went  back  to  the 
gross  hardships  of  the  sawmill  camp,  the  ill-cooked 
food,  the  overworked  little  woman  in  the  dingy 
cabin  with  the  fretting  children  under  foot,  the 
uncongenial  companionship  of  the  quarreling  men. 

In  early  spring  he  came  home,  still  thin  and 
worn,  and  even  more  silent  than  was  his  wont. 
Callista  had  kept  her  word ;  she  was  domiciled  in 
the  cabin  on  Lance's  Laurel,  and  she  had  Sylvane 
get  her  truck  patch  almost  ready.  In  the  well 
nigh  feverish  activity  of  first  motherhood,  she  had 
learned  in  these  few  months  to  be  a  really  superior 
housewife,  and  a  master  hand  at  all  that  a  moun- 
tain housekeeper  should  know.  Roxy  Griever 
was  but  too  willing  to  teach,  and  Callista  had 
needed  only  to  have  her  energies  and  attention 
enlisted.  She  had  a  sound,  noble  physique; 
maternity  had  but  developed  her;  and  she  was 
very  obviously  mistress  of  herself  as  well  as  of  the 


250  Lance  Cleaverage 

house  when  Lance  came  over  from  the  sawmill 
cabin  to  find  her  there  with  his  son,  awaiting  him. 

He  stopped  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  His 
appreciative  glance  traveled  over  the  neat  interior, 
and  he  sniffed  the  odors  of  a  supper  preparing. 
This  was  a  homecoming  indeed.  Here,  surely, 
were  the  coasts  of  his  island ;  and  Callista,  bending 
over  his  child,  drawing  the  cover  around  the  baby 
before  she  turned  to  greet  Lance,  a  figure  to 
comfort  a  man's  heart. 

"You  look  fine  here,"  he  told  her,  entering, 
hanging  up  his  hat,  and  disposing  of  the  bundles 
he  had  been  carrying. 

Callista  advanced  smiling  to  him  and  lifted  her 
face  to  be  kissed.  Self-absorbed,  wholly  pleased 
with  her  house  and  her  baby,  and  her  newly 
discovered  gift  for  work,  and  for  administration, 
she  never  noted  the  quick,  wild  question  of  his 
eyes,  which  was  as  swiftly  veiled. 

"The  baby's  asleep  already,"  she  announced 
softly.  "We  got  to  be  right  quiet." 

Nodding  silently,  Lance  picked  up  some  of  the 
things  he  had  brought,  and  carried  them  out  to 
the  shed,  whence  Callista,  later,  summoned  him 
to  supper. 

Old  Kimbro  proved  to  be  right.  Lance,  having 
held  by  his  contract  till  Spring,  was  able  to  collect 
the  poor  little  balance  of  his  wages,  and  on  this 
they  proposed  to  live  while  he  got  the  place  in  the 
Gap  in  some  shape  to  support  them.  Satan  was 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island         251 

well  now,  but  it  fretted  Lance  unreasonably  that 
he  could  not  buy  Cindy  back  from  Flenton  Hands. 

With  characteristic  insouciance  and  unusual 
energy,  he  set  to  work  on  the  gigantic  task  of 
subduing  his  large  tract  of  steep,  wild,  mountain 
land.  No  doubt  he  worked  too  hard  that  summer ; 
people  of  Lance's  temperament  are  always  working 
too  hard  —  or  not  working  at  all.  As  for  Callista, 
the  first  eagerness  of  her  mere  passion  for  Lance 
was  satisfied.  She  was  no  more  the  warm, 
tender,  young  girl,  almost  pathetically  in  love,  — 
even  though  proud  and  wilful  and  somewhat 
spoiled  —  but  the  composed,  dignified  mother  of 
a  son  and  mistress  of  a  home.  She  had  once 
been  too  little  of  a  house-mother  for  her  man, 
and  now  she  was  rather  too  much. 

Yet  Lance  went  no  more  abroad  for  consolation. 
After  his  settlement  with  Derf,  he  had  refused  to 
put  foot  on  their  place  again.  This  was  not  the 
season  for  hunting.  He  comforted  himself  with 
his  banjo,  and  enjoyed  too,  in  its  own  measure, 
the  well-kept  home,  the  excellently  prepared  food, 
the  placid,  calm,  good -will  of  his  mate. 

And  the  child  was  Callista  over  again;  big  blue 
eyes,  a  fuzz  of  pale  gold  down,  and  an  air  of  great 
wisdom  and  dignity.  As  he  grew  able  to  sit  up 
alone  on  the  floor  and  manage  his  own  playthings, 
one  saw  laughably  enough  his  mother's  slant 
glance  of  scorn,  that  which  had  been  considered 
her  affectation  of  indifference,  reproduced  in  the 


252  Lance  Cleaverage 

baby's  manner.  Between  mother  and  son,  Lance 
sometimes  felt  himself  reduced  to  his  lowest  terms. 

Yet  they  thrived,  for  the  welfare  of  a  primitive 
household  still  depends  more  upon  the  woman 
than  on  the  man.  If  Lance's  restless  fancy  — 
that  questioning,  eager  heart  of  his — lacked  some- 
thing of  full  satisfaction,  his  body  was  well  fed,  his 
household  comfort  was  complete,  and  his  material 
work  laid  out  plainly  before  him.  And  Lance 
could  work  so  well  and  to  such  good  purpose  that 
at  midsummer  his  clearing  had  assumed  very 
respectable  size,  and  the  small  crop  he  had  made 
was  laid  by.  Even  Callista  agreed  that  they 
might  now  make  the  trip  Lance  had  proposed 
more  than  a  year  ago,  over  to  the  East  Fork  of 
Caney. 

That  camping  trip  was  well  thought  of.  It 
instantly  reversed  the  family  balance,  and  sent 
Lance's  end  swinging  higher.  If  Callista  domin- 
ated the  house,  and  her  spirit  was  coming  to 
pervade  the  farm  as  well,  Lance  was  supreme  in 
this  matter  of  the  gipsying  excursion. 

"You  needn't  bother  your  head  about  what  to 
pack,"  he  told  her.  "I  reckon  I'll  know  better 
than  you  do  what  we'll  need,  exceptin'  the  things 
for  that  young  man  you  make  so  much  of." 

So  Callista  concerned  herself  with  the  baby's 
outfit  and  her  own,  with  assurance  that  her  jars 
were  in  order,  and  that  she  had  enough  sugar 
to  put  up  jam.  The  other  berries  could  be 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island         253 

canned  without  sugar,  and  sweetened  when  they 
came  to  use  them.  A  joyous  bustle  of  preparation 
pervaded  the  place;  that  play  spirit  which  was 
necessary  to  Lance  Cleaverage,  and  which  Cal- 
lista  would  quite  innocently  and  unconsciously 
have  crushed  out  of  him  if  she  could,  was  all  alert 
and  dancing  at  the  prospect.  He  came  into  his 
wife's  kitchen  and  packed  flour  and  meal,  frying 
pan  and  Dutch  oven,  with  various  other  small 
matters  necessary,  observing  as  the  bacon  went  in, 

"  We  won't  need  much  of  that,  excepting  to  fry 
fish  and  help  out  with  wild  meat.  The  law's  off 
of  pa'tridges  in  the  Valley  next  month,  and  it's 
sure  off  of  'em  up  here  now." 

Callista,  sitting  on  the  table,  swinging  a  foot  to 
keep  the  baby  trotted  on  her  knee,  looked  on 
smilingly. 

"When  Blev  Straley  and  his  wife  camped  out 
and  canned  blackberries,  they  hadn't  any  nag," 
she  commented.  "He  had  to  take  the  things  in 
a  wheelbarrow,  and  it  looked  like  some  places  he 
couldn't  hardly  get  acrost;  but  Miranda  said  she 
had  the  best  time  she  ever  had  in  her  life." 

Kimbro  Cleaverage  was  teaching  school  over  in 
the  Far  Cove.  For  fifteen  years  he  had  taught 
this  little  summer  school ;  his  pupils  now  were  the 
children  of  the  first  boys  and  girls  who  came  under 
his  rule.  His  neighbors  held  toward  the  gentle  soul 
a  patronizing,  almost  tolerant  attitude.  True,  he 
managed  the  winter  school  nearer  home,  having 


254  Lance  Cleaverage 

little  trouble  with  the  big  boys,  the  bullies,  the 
incorrigibles ;  while  it  was  well  understood  that 
the  peaceful,  who  wanted  to  learn,  could  get  on 
powerful  fast  under  his  tuition.  Yet  there  were 
those  who  deprecated  the  mildness  of  his  sway, 
and  allowed  that  he  was  really  better  suited  to 
the  small  children,  the  anxious-faced  little  boys, 
too  young  yet  to  follow  the  plow,  the  small  girls 
who  had  just  finished  dropping  corn  or  "suckering 
the  crop."  That  these  dearly  loved  the  master 
was  held  to  be  an  unimportant  detail,  and  his 
aversion  to  plying  the  hickory  was  always  cited 
in  regard  to  Lance's  misdoings. 

When  his  father  was  away  teaching,  the  manage- 
ment, and  all  the  labor  of  the  wornout  little  farm 
fell  on  Sylvane's  young  shoulders.  Lance  had 
promised  his  brother  the  use  of  Satan  for  the 
week  when  they  should  be  in  camp.  The  boy 
came  over  to  help  them  pack. 

It  was  a  July  morning  without  flaw,  blue  and 
green  and  golden,  and  brooded  upon  by  the  full- 
hearted  peace  of  ripe  summer.  Bedding  and 
kitchen  supplies  were  put  in  two  big  bundles 
arranged  pannier  fashion  on  the  black  horse,  and 
firmly  lashed  in  place  by  a  pair  of  plow  lines. 

"Why  don't  you  put  it  up  on  his  back?" 
Callista  asked  them,  coming  out  with  her  eight 
month's  old  baby,  all  in  order  for  the  journey. 

"  That's  to  leave  place  for  you  to  ride  part  of  the 
time,"  Lance  told  her.  "It's  a  right  smart  ways 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island          255 

we're  going,  and  that  son  of  yours  is  tol'able  heavy, 
and  half  the  time  you  won't  let  me  tote  him." 

So  they  set  off,  Sylvane  walking  ahead  at  Satan's 
bridle,  whistling  and  singing  by  turns,  Lance  with 
his  banjo  on  his  back,  Callista  at  first  carrying  the 
boy  because  he  wanted  her  to,  and  afterward 
relinquishing  him  to  Lance  or  Sylvane.  The 
route  lay  over  springy  leaf -mold,  under  great  trees 
for  the  most  part,  leaving  the  main  road,  and 
taking  merely  an  occasional  cattle-path,  while 
always  it  wound  upward.  After  a  time,  the 
timber  became  more  scattered,  and  from  going 
forward  under  a  leafage  that  shut  out  the  rising 
sun,  there  were  patches  of  open,  meadow-like 
grasses,  called  by  the  mountain  dweller,  balds, 
interspersed  with  groups  of  cedars  and  oaks.  The 
last  mile  was  up  the  dry  bed  of  Caney,  and  it  con- 
sisted of  a  scramble  over  great  boulders,  where 
only  a  mountain-bred  horse  might  keep  his  foot- 
ing. Turning  suddenly  and  scaling  a  bank  that 
was  like  a  precipice,  one  came  on  Lance's  find,  a 
cup-like  hollow  between  the  cleft  portions  of  a 
mountain  peak,  where  the  great  gray  rocks  lay 
strewn  thick,  the  ferns  grew  waist  high,  and  the 
trickling  spring-branch  was  so  blue-cold  that  it 
made  your  teeth  ache  to  drink  of  it  even  on  a 
summer's  day. 

The  three  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  on  the  edge 
of  the  miniature  valley,  studying  its  perfections 
with  loving  eyes ;  the  mountaineer  leads  all  others 


256  Lance  Cleaverage 

in  passionate  admiration  for  the  beauty  of  his 
native  highlands. 

"Oh,  Lance!"  Callista  said  at  length,  very 
softly.  "You  never  told  me  it  was  as  sightly  as 
all  this." 

"Couldn't,"  murmured  Lance,  pleased  to  the 
soul.  "I  ain't  got  the  words  by  me." 

Sylvane  helped  them  unpack,  waited  for  a 
hasty  dinner  for  himself  and  Satan;  then  having 
agreed  to  return  for  them  at  the  end  of  a  week,  he 
went  back,  leading  his  black  horse,  looking  with 
boyish  envy  over  his  shoulder  at  the  happy  little 
group  in  the  hidden  pocket  of  the  hills.  When  he 
was  out  of  sight  of  them,  he  could  still  see  the  blue 
smoke  of  their  camp  fire  rising  clear  and  high,  and 
stopping  to  mount  Satan,  when  the  trail  became 
fit  for  it,  he  hearkened  a  moment,  and  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  banjo. 

It  was  Lance  who  made  the  camp,  deftly, 
swiftly;  Callista  looked  after  her  baby  and  ex- 
plored their  new  domain,  moving  about,  girlish, 
light-footed,  singing  to  herself,  so  that  the  eyes  of 
the  man  bending  over  his  task  followed  her  eagerly. 
Two  great  boulders  leaning  together  made  them  a 
rock  house.  Lance  soon  had  a  chimney  up,  of 
loose  stones  to  be  sure,  but  drawing  sufficiently  to 
keep  the  smoke  out  of  your  eyes  unless  the  wind 
was  more  perverse  than  a  summer  breeze  is  apt  to 
be.  That  evening  they  ate  a  supper  of  the  cooked 
food  they  had  brought  and  rested  as  the  first  pair 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island         257 

might  have  done  in  Eden,  sleeping  soundly  on  their 
light,  springy  couch  of  tender  hemlock  tips.  But 
next  day  Lance  fished  in  the  little  stream  and  came 
up  with  a  wonderful  catch  of  tiny  silver-sided, 
rainbow  trout,  cleaned  and  laid  in  a  great  leaf -cup 
ready  for  the  frying  pan. 

"  Lance,  oh  Lance !  —  ain't  it  too  bad  ? "  Callista 
greeted  him  from  the  fire  where  she  had  her  corn- 
bread  nearly  ready  to  accompany  his  fish.  "I 
believe  in  my  soul  we've  come  clean  over  here  and 
forgot  the  salt  —  the  salt !  I  put  some  in  my 
meal,  or  the  bread  wouldn't  be  fit  to  eat.  Do  you 
reckon  the  meat  fryings  will  make  your  fish  taste 
all  right  ?  No  —  of  course  it  won't.  I'm  mighty 
sorry.  Looks  like  that  is  certainly  the  prettiest 
fish  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  they're  so  good 
right  fresh  from  the  water." 

"  It  -is  too  bad,"  agreed  Lance,  with  a  very  sober 
countenance,  going  ahead  however  with  his  prep- 
arations. "  'Pears  as  if  somebody  in  this  crowd 
is  a  pore  manager." 

"It's  me,  Lance,"  Callista  hastened  to  avow, 
kneeling  by  their  primitive  hearthstone  to  tend 
her  bread.  "It  was  my  business  to  see  that  the 
salt  was  in ;  but  I  got  so  took  up  with  the  baby  that 
I  left  everything  to  you ;  and  a  body  can't  expect 
a  man  - 

She  broke  off;  Lance,  kneeling  beside  her, 
engaged  in  his  own  enterprise  of  fish-frying  had 
suddenly  turned  and  kissed  her  flushed  cheek. 


258  Lance  Cleaverage 

There  was  always  a  sort  of  embarrassment  in  this 
unusual  demonstrativeness  of  her  husband's;  and 
yet  it  subdued  her  heart  as  nothing  else  could,  as 
nothing  had  ever  done.  That  heart  beat  swiftly 
and  the  long  fair  lashes  lay  almost  on  the  glowing 
cheek  above  where  Lance  had  kissed. 

A  few  moments  later,  when  the  primitive  meal 
was  spread  under  the  open  sky,  Callista  tasted  her 
fish. 

"Lance!"  she  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 
"  You  rogue !  You  had  salt  along  with  you  all  the 
time !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  and  put  my  mind 
at  rest?" 

"I'm  not  so  terrible  sure  that  a  restful  mind  is 
what's  needed  in  your  case,"  Lance  teased  her. 
"  I  thought  you  looked  mighty  sweet  and  sounded 
mighty  sweet,  too,  when  you  was  a  blamin'  your- 
se'f." 

Lance  had  spoken  truly  when  he  praised  the 
huckleberries  that  grew  in  the  little  valley  where 
nobody  came  to  pick  them.  They  stood  thick  all 
over  its  steep,  shelving  sides,  taller  bushes  than 
those  of  the  lowland,  with  great  blue  berries,  ten- 
der of  skin,  sun  sweetened,  bursting  with  juice. 
Callista  was  almost  wearisome  in  her  triumph  over 
the  fruit.  Forest  fires  and  drought  had  made  the 
berry  crop  nearer  home  a  failure  this  year;  she 
would  be  the  only  woman  in  the  neighborhood  with 
such  canned  huckleberries  to  boast  of.  She  picked 
them  tirelessly,  making  work  of  her  play,  Callista 


259 


fashion,  spreading  her  apron  under  the  bush  and 
raking  down  green  ones,  leaves  and  all,  into  it, 
then  afterward  harrying  Lance  into  helping  her 
look  them  over  while  the  baby  played  near  by  or 
slept.  This  gipsying  was  not  her  plan ;  she  had 
come  along  in  mere  complaisance ;  yet  in  the  simple 
outdoor  life  she  throve  beautifully;  her  cheeks 
rounded  out,  and  her  temples  lost  their  bleached 
look;  she  was  the  old  delicious  Callista,  with  an 
added  glow  and  bloom  and  softness. 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  their  stay,  that 
Lance,  with  the  air  of  a  boy  disclosing  to  some 
chosen  companion  a  long-cherished  treasure,  took 
her  by  a  circuitous  way  up  the  steep  wall  of  their 
little  valley,  and  helping  her  around  a  big  boulder 
and  through  a  thicket  of  laurel,  showed  her  the 
opening  of  a  cave.  Man-high  the  entrance  was, 
with  a  tiny  cup  of  a  spring  in  its  lap ;  but  six  or 
eight  feet  in  there  was  an  abrupt  turning  so  that 
the  cave's  extent  was  entirely  hidden.  He  stood 
smilingly  by,  enjoying  her  astonishment. 

"Why,  Lance!"  she  cried.  "Well,  I  vow! 
Why,  no  one  in  the  world  would  ever  suspicion 
there  was  a  cave  here!  " 

The  two  turned  to  look  back  at  their  camp, 
only  to  find  themselves  wholly  screened  by  the 
oblique  side  of  the  great  boulder  and  the  laurel 
bushes,  cut  off  from  sight  and  sound  of  all  that 
went  on  in  the  little  valley. 

"They  sure    never    would,"   Lance    assented. 


260  Lance  Cleaverage 

"And  I've  never  told  a  soul  —  but  Sylvane  — 
about  the  place.  I  was  even  kind  o'  duberous 
about  showing  you,"  and  he  laughed  teasingly. 
"Might  need  a  hide-out  some  time,  that  nobody 
didn't  know  where  to  find." 

There  was  a  Phoebe-bird's  nest  just  at  the 
opening  of  the  cave.  Lance  drew  Callista  back, 
both  of  them  standing  half  crouched,  while  the 
mother,  returning  home,  flitted  past  them  and 
fed  her  babies. 

"Mighty  late  for  that  business,"  whispered 
Lance. 

"Second  brood,  I  reckon,"  Callista  murmured 
back. 

"Or  maybe  got  broke  up  with  the  first  brood," 
Lance  added. 

The  little  dell  was  so  remote  that  the  birds  were 
less  shy  than  where  they  have  been  intruded  upon 
by  man  and  civilization,  and  the  mother  betrayed 
little  uneasiness  when  the  two  visitors  crept 
closer. 

"My,  ain't  it  scairy!"  Callista  said,  peering 
beyond  into  the  cave.  Then,  as  they  descended 
the  bank  once  more,  "Hit  looked  like  there  might 
be  wildcats  in  it." 

"  I  aimed  to  explore  it  this  time  and  get  to  the 
end  if  I  could,"  Lance  replied.  "I  was  fifteen 
year  old  when  I  found  that  place,  and  I  used  to 
scheme  it  out,  like  a  boy  will,  that  if  I'd  ever  go 
with  the  Jesse  James  gang,  or  kill  a  man,  or  any- 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island         261 

thing  to  get  the  law  out  after  me,  I'd  hide  there ; 
and  then,  oncet  Caney  was  up,  all  the  world 
couldn't  find  me." 

"What'd  you  eat?"  objected  practical  Callista. 

Lance  smiled.  "I  could  take  care  of  myself  in 
the  woods  about  as  well  as  any  of  the  critters," 
he  told  her. 

"I  reckon  I'd  have  to  come  and  bring  you  a 
pone/'  bantered  Callista.  And  they  turned  and 
smiled  happily  into  each  other's  eyes,  all  in  the 
blue,  unclouded  summer,  with  the  baby  asleep 
back  in  the  rock  house,  and  the  two  of  them 
climbing  down  to  him  and  their  gipsy  home  hand 
in  hand. 

And  now  perfect  day  followed  perfect  day.  The 
work  of  the  camp  was  frolic  to  Lance;  he  did  it 
laughing,  as  he  would  have  gone  through  a  game, 
and  then  tolerantly  helped  Callista  with  the  play 
of  which  she  made  work.  The  high  noon  of 
summer  brooded  over  the  mountains,  with  a 
wonderful  blue  haze  and  a  silence  that  was  almost 
palpable.  In  their  little  cup  of  the  hills,  there 
was  a  hoarded  wine  of  coolness.  The  drowsy 
tinkle  of  the  tiny  branch  that  ran  from  their 
spring  backgrounded  the  rare  sound  of  their  voices. 
And  Lance  would  lie  full  length  on  the  earth  as  he 
loved  to  do,  strumming  sometimes  on  his  banjo, 
drowsing  a  little,  amusing  and  being  amused  by 
the  baby.  Callista,  her  head  bent,  her  face 
intent  above  the  work,  would  be  picking  over  her 


262 


berries.  The  boy  was  intensely,  solemnly  inter- 
ested in  the  banjo ;  but  when  its  music  ceased,  he 
would  roll  away  from  his  father's  arm  and  creep  to 
his  mother's  skirts,  there  to  cuddle  down  and 
sleep,  a  dimpled  picture  of  infantile  perfection. 

Lance  would  regard  them  both  from  under  his 
lashes.  Beauty-worshipper  that  he  was,  they 
satisfied  every  whim  and  caprice  of  longing,  so 
far  as  the  eyes  spoke.  And  they  were  his. 
Callista  was  his  own,  she  had  come  with  him  to  the 
place  he  found  for  her;  she  was  an  amiable, 
complying  companion.  And  yet  —  and  yet  — . 

The  birds  were  all  silent  now,  except  for  an 
occasional  chirp  or  twitter  in  among  the  leafage. 
The  little  breeze  that  seemed  to  live  only  in  their 
high  eyrie  went  by  softly,  making  its  own  music. 
"  How  many  miles,  how  many  years  ?  "  But  there 
were  no  longer  miles  and  years  between  him  and 
his  beloved.  No,  she  was  within  hand-reach. 
He  could  stretch  forth  his  fingers  and  touch  the 
hem  of  her  skirts.  With  an  impatient  sigh  he 
would  turn  over  and  take  up  his  banjo. 

"Don't  play  now,  Lance  —  you'll  wake  the 
baby,"  Callista  would  murmur  half  mechanically, 
in  that  hushed  tone  mothers  learn  so  soon. 

One  day  Lance  snared  a  couple  of  partridges, 
and,  cleaning  and  salting  them,  roasted  them  with 
the  feathers  on,  by  daubing  each  with  the  stiff, 
tough  blue  clay  of  the  region,  and  burying  the  balls 
in  the  embers.  They  came  out  delicious.  When 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island         263 

the  clay  coating  was  broken  off,  feathers  and  skin 
went  with  it,  leaving  all  the  delicate  juices  of  the 
meat  steaming.  His  helpmate  praised  his  skill 
generously. 

"Ola  Derf  showed  me  that  trick,"  Lance  said, 
in  fairness,  clearing  a  dainty  little  drumstick  with 
his  teeth.  "We  was  fishing  over  on  Laurel  one 
day,  and  we  didn't  get  no  fish.  So  she  caught  a 
couple  of  chickens,  and  cooked  them  that-a-way. 
Good,  ain't  they?" 

Callista  nodded. 

"  Whose  chickens  were  they  —  them  you  and 
Ola  Derf  caught?"  she  asked,  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

Lance  laughed  long  and  uproariously. 

"Whose  chickens?"  he  repeated.  "Our'n,  I 
reckon,  oncet  we'd  cooked  'em  and  et  'em.  I 
never  axed  'em  their  names.  They  tasted  all  right. 
I  ain't  got  no  objections  to  strangers  —  in  chickens 
that-a-way." 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  right,"  Callista  told  him 
with  great  finality.  "  It's  likely  some  poor  old 
woman  had  her  mouth  all  fixed  for  chicken  dinner, 
or  was  going  to  have  the  preacher  at  her  house, 
and  then  you  and  Ola  stole  her  chickens  and  she 
never  knew  what  became  of  them.  I  think  it  was 
right  mean." 

"So  do  I,"  agreed  Lance  lightly.  "That's  the 
reason  I  enjoyed  it.  I  get  mighty  tired  of  bein' 
good." 


264  Lance  Cleaverage 

"You  do?"  inquired  his  wife  with  gay  scorn. 
"I  didn't  know  you'd  ever  had  the  chance." 

Yet  of  this  conversation  remained  the  knowledge 
that  such  gipsying  meals  as  this  had  been  eaten 
with  Ola  Derf  before  she  and  Lance  cooked  for  each 
other.  Had  he  found  Ola  an  entirely  satisfactory 
companion  ?  Evidently  not,  for  he  could  have  had 
her  for  the  asking.  Did  she,  Callista,  compare  in 
any  way  unfavorably  with  the  Derf  girl  ?  Such 
questionings  were  new  to  Callista,  and  they  were 
decidedly  uncomfortable.  She  resented  them ;  yet 
she  could  not  quite  put  them  by. 

Lance  was  used  to  sleeping  the  deep  and  dream- 
less slumber  of  those  who  labor  much  in  the  open 
air ;  but  on  the  last  night  of  their  stay  in  the  little 
hollow  by  the  spring,  he  lay  long  awake. 

"Callista,  air  you  asleep?"  he  inquired  with 
caution. 

"N  —  no,"  murmured  Callista  drowsily. 

"  Well,  somehow  I  cain't  git  to  sleep,"  said  Lance. 
"  I  feel  like  this  rock  house  was  goin'  to  fall  down 
on  me.  I  believe  I'd  like  to  take  my  blanket  out 
there  on  the  grass  if  you  won't  be  scared  to  be 
alone.  You  could  call  to  me." 

Callista  assented,  only  half  awake.  Once 
sprawled  at  ease  under  the  stars,  sleep  seemed 
definitely  to  have  forsaken  him.  He  lay  and 
stared  up  into  the  velvety  blue-black  spaces  above 
him.  His  mind  went  dreamily  over  the  past  few 
days.  How  good  it  had  been.  And  yet  —  he 


The  Coasts  of  the  Island          265 

broke  off  and  ruminated  for  awhile  on  whether  or 
no  a  body  should  ever  cherish  a  plan  for  years  as 
he  had  cherished  this  plan  of  camping  out  some 
time  in  the  rock  house  with  Callista.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  if  a  man  had  planned  a  thing  for  so  long, 
it  was  better  not  to  bring  it  to  pass,  for  the  reality 
could  never  compare  favorably  with  the  dream. 
He  sighed  impatiently,  and  turned  his  face 
resolutely  down  against  the  grass,  dew-wet  and 
cool.  But  there  was  no  sleep  for  him  in  the  earth, 
as  there  had  been  none  in  the  heavens.  Before  his 
eyes,  quite  as  real  as  daylight  seeing,  came  the 
vision  of  Callista  and  his  boy.  There  was  not  such 
a  woman  nor  such  a  child  in  all  his  knowledge.  He 
had  chosen  well.  Idle  dreams  of  Callista  as  a  girl 
among  her  mates ;  of  Callista  lying  spent  and  white 
in  her  bed  with  his  child,  new  born,  on  her  arm ;  of 
Callista  kneeling  flushed  and  housewifely  by  this 
outdoor  hearth  to  prepare  his  meal  —  these  strung 
themselves  into  an  endless,  tantalizing  line,  a 
shadowy  gallery  of  pictures,  a  visioned  processional, 
each  face  in  some  sort  a  stranger's.  What  was  it 
he  had  thought  to  compass  by  coming  here  with 
her  ?  Why  was  the  realization  not  enough  ? 

Through  dreams  and  waking  this  question  fol- 
lowed him,  giving  him  no  deep  rest;  and  dawn 
found  him  already  afoot  and  busy  with  the  prepa- 
rations for  their  return  home. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE    HEGIRA. 

CALLISTA  roused  that  morning,  to  see  Lance 
moving,  light-footed,  a  shadow  between  her 
and  the  first  struggling  blaze  of  the  fire  he  had 
kindled.  With  sleepy  surprise  she  noted  his 
activities.  When  she  observed  that  he  was 
packing  her  canned  fruit,  with  quick,  deft  fingers, 
she  inquired, 

"What  you  doin'  there,  Lance?  No  use  fixin' 
them  up  now.  Sylvane  won't  be  here  till  in  the 
morning." 

Lance  broke  off  the  low  whistling  which  had 
wakened  her,  and  turned  to  regard  his  wife  for  a 
moment  before  he  spoke. 

"I  thought  I'd  get  this  packing  done,"  he  said 
non-committally.  "  If  we  was  to  go  home  to-day 
I  could  tote  whatever  we  needed,  and  Buddy 
could  fetch  over  the  heaviest  stuff  to-morrow." 

Callista  dozed  a  little  luxuriously,  and  woke  to  a 
smell  of  boiling  coffee  and  frying  pork. 

"You've  got  breakfast  enough  there  for  three 
people,"  she  commented,  when  she  finally  drew 
near  the  fire. 

"Uh-huh,"  assented  Lance.  "I  'lowed  Sylvane 
might  come  to-day,  place  of  Saturday.  Anyhow, 

266 


The  Hegira  267 

we'll  need  something  for  a  bite  on  the  way."  And 
Callista  realized  that  her  husband  was  indeed 
making  the  final  preparations  for  their  return. 

As  they  sat  down  either  side  the  frying  pan,  and 
Callista  lifted  the  lid  from  the  Dutch  oven  to  take 
the  bread  out,  they  became  aware  of  the  sound 
of  scrambling  hoofs  and  parting  branches.  When- 
ever there  was  high  water  in  Caney,  this  little 
valley  was  cut  off,  it  was  a  retreat  unknown, 
unvisited;  the  newcomer  could  be  nobody  but 
Sylvane.  A  moment  later  the  boy  made  his 
appearance,  clambering  over  the  rocks,  leading 
Satan  by  a  long  line. 

"  I  'lowed  you-all  wouldn't  mind  coming  back  a 
day  sooner,"  he  apologized,  as  he  gratefully 
seated  himself  for  an  addition  to  his  hastily 
snatched  breakfast  eaten  by  candle-light.  "  They's 
a  feller  that  the  Company  has  sent  up  to  look 
over  lands,  and  he's  a-buyin'  mineral  rights  - 
or  ruther,  gettin'  options  —  on  everybody's  farms. 
They'll  pay  big  prices,  and  Sis'  Roxy  said  I  ought 
to  come  and  tell  Lance  of  it." 

The  man  listened  indifferently,  but  the  woman 
was  all  aglow.  The  touch  of  practical  life  had 
dissolved  whatever  of  the  gipsy  mood  Lance's 
nature  had  been  able  to  lend  hers.  She  questioned 
the  boy  minutely,  Lance  listening  with  ill-con- 
cealed impatience;  and  when  the  subject  was 
exhausted,  began  to  ask  him  with  great  particu- 
larity concerning  her  truck  patch  at  home  and 


268  Lance  Cleaverage 

whether  Spotty,  the  young  cow  Lance  had  traded 
with  Squire  Ashe  for,  was  doing  well  in  her  milk. 

In  spite  of  Lance's  packing,  there  was  much  to 
do  before  camp  could  be  struck,  and  on  account  of 
the  canned  fruit  they  moved  so  slowly  that  noon 
saw  them  still  in  the  wilderness,  dropping  down 
by  the  stream's  side  to  eat  the  snack  they  had 
brought  with  them.  They  went  around  by  Father 
Cleaverage's  this  time,  and  stopped  there,  since 
Callista  intended  to  present  a  few  of  her  cherished 
huckleberries  to  Roxy,  and  they  reached  the 
cabin  at  the  head  of  Lance's  Laurel  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

For  some  reason  which  he  could  not  himself  have 
told  you,  Lance  felt  strangely  wearied  and  dissat- 
isfied. He  looked  back  to  the  week  past,  and 
admitted  that  all  had  gone  well ;  days  of  fishing  and 
dreaming,  evenings  under  the  open  sky  with  the 
banjo  humming,  the  not  unwelcome  fire  leap- 
ing up,  and  the  baby  asleep  on  Callista's  lap. 
Could  a  man  have  asked  more? 

The  son  of  the  house  had  thriven  amazingly  on 
it,  and  this  evening  he  was  assuming  airs  so 
domineering  that  his  father  professed  fear  of  him. 

"Look  a  here,  young  feller,"  Lance  said,  as  the 
big  eight-months-old  came  creeping  across  the 
floor  and  hammered  on  his  knee  to  be  taken  up, 
"you're  about  to  run  me  out  o'  the  house."  He 
lifted  his  son  on  his  arm,  and,  carrying  the  banjo 
in  the  other  hand,  beyond  reach  of  the  clutching, 


The  Hegira  269 

fat  fingers,  went  to  the  doorstone  with  them. 
"Oh,  you're  your  mammy  over  again,"  he  admon- 
ished the  baby.  "You  don't  own  up  to  me  at 
all.  I  wisht  I  had  me  a  nice  gal  o'  your  size,  that 
would  admit  I  was  her  daddy." 

Callista  had  her  supper  nearly  ready.  Growing 
now,  with  motherhood,  intensely  material,  —  or, 
as  Lance  had  more  than  once  jokingly  declared,  a 
trifle  grasping,  —  the  selling  of  the  land  to  the 
Company  for  a  big  price  occupied  all  her  thoughts. 

"You'll  go  over  to  Squire  Ashe's  soon  in  the 
morning,  won't  you  Lance  and  see  about  the 
land?"  she  questioned.  "Sylvane  said  the  man 
was  stayin'  at  Ashe's." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  sell,"  the  owner  of 
Jesse  Lance's  Gap  hundred  observed  indifferently, 
running  random  little  chords  on  his  banjo. 
"I  ain't  rightly  studied  about  it." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  would  study  about  it,"  urged 
Callista.  "I  think  it's  your  duty  to." 

"I  think  it's  your  duty  to,  duty  to,  dute," 

hummed  Lance  to  a  twanging  accompaniment 
from  the  strings.  "Looks  like  I've  heard  them 
words  before  somewheres.  I'll  be  blessed  if  that 
ain't  Sis'  Roxy's  tune  you've  took  up,  Callista!" 
"Your  sister  does  her  duty  in  this  world," 
asserted  Callista  tartly.  "It's  nothing  but  the 
mineral  rights  they'll  want.  All  that  talk  you 
had  this  mornin'  about  the  land  coming  from  your 


270  Lance  Cleaverage 

gran'pappy,  and  your  not  wanting  to  leave   it, 
is  just  to  —  to  have  your  own  way." 

Lance  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Would  you  say  so?"  he  debated,  his  voice 
quiet,  but  the  spark  shining  deep  in  his  hazel  eye. 
"  Well  now,  I'd  have  said  —  if  you'd  axed  me  — 
that  I've  had  my  own  way  most  generally  without 
resorting  to  such.  I'm  ruther  expectin'  to  have 
my  own  way  from  this  time  out,  and  take  no 
curious  methods  of  gettin'  it." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  selling 
the  land?  "  she  persisted. 

Lance  lifted  the  baby's  fat  hand  and  pretended 
to  pick  the  banjo  strings  with  the  pointed,  inade- 
quate fingers,  to  the  young  man's  serious  enjoy- 
ment. Callista  waited  for  what  she  considered 
a  reasonable  time,  and  then  prompted. 

"Lance.     Lance,  did  you  hear  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  heared  you  well  enough,"  Lance 
told  her  composedly.  "  I  was  just  a-studyin'  on 
the  matter." 

Again  silence,  punctuated  by  the  aimless 
twanging  of  the  banjo  strings,  the  little  sounds 
from  the  summer  world  without,  the  quick,  light 
tapping  of  Callista's  feet  and  the  little  whisper  of 
her  skirts  as  she  moved  about  her  task. 

"Well  —  have  you  studied?"  she  inquired 
abruptly  at  length. 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Lance  negligently,  curling 
himself  down  on  the  doorstone  a  little  further, 


The  Hegira          ,  271 

"an"  I'm  studyin'  yet.  Ye  see  that  there  feller 
they  sent  out  for  an  agent  met  me  on  the  big  road 
one  day  about  a  month  ago  and  bantered  me  to 
trade.  I  told  him  I'd  let  him  know,  time  I  got 
back." 

"And  you  never  named  it  to  me!"  Callista  said 
sharply,  pausing,  dish  in  hand  by  the  table  side, 
and  staring  at  her  husband  with  reprehending 
eyes.  "You  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it; 
and  you  went  off  on  that  foolish  camping  trip! 
For  the  good  gracious,  I  don't  know  what  men  are 
made  of ! " 

"Some  are  made  of  one  thing,  and  some  of 
another,"  allowed  Lance  easily,  leaning  his  head 
back  against  the  door  jamb  and  half  closing  his 
eyes. 

"Before  we  went  away,"  repeated  Callista 
reproachfully.  "  Maybe  you've  lost  your  chance." 

The  spur  to  Lance  Cleaverage,  the  goad,  was 
ever  the  hint  to  go  slower;  applied  recklessly,  it 
was  quite  sufficient  to  make  him  dig  heels  and  toes 
into  the  track  and  refuse  to  go  at  all.  At  Callista's 
suggestion  that  he  had  missed  his  chance,  he 
balked  entirely. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  sell,"  he 
reiterated.  "That's  what  I  told  the  man  —  and 
that's  the  truth." 

"Of  course  you  want  to  sell,"  asserted  Callista 
in  exasperation,  "and  you  want  to  sell  terrible 
bad  —  we  all  do.  Nobody  in  the  Turkey  Tracks 


272  Lance  Cleaverage 

has  got  any  money.  We  just  live  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  dig  what  we  get  out  of  the  ground 
mighty  hard.  Oh,  I  wish't  I  was  a  man.  I'd 
go  straight  down  to  the  Settlement  and  sell  this 
land  before  I  came  back." 

A  faint  color  showed  itself  in  her  husband's 
brown  cheeks.  His  lips  parted  slightly  and 
remained  so  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke. 

"  Not  unless  the  man  you  was  chanced  to  be  me, 
you  wouldn't  sell  my  land,"  he  said  at  length, 
speaking  softly,  almost  dreamily. 

Callista's  temper  was  slow,  but  it  was  implac- 
able. She  eyed  her  husband  for  a  moment  and 
turned  to  begin  dishing  up  her  supper.  Lance 
lifted  his  son  back  once  more  out  of  reach  of  the 
instrument,  set  him  comfortably  against  the 
propped  open  door,  took  up  the  banjo  and  com- 
menced to  play  a  lively  air  for  the  boy's  diver- 
sion. 

"Flenton  Hands  has  sold,"  Callista  flung  out  the 
words  as  she  bent  over  the  hearth  to  a  pot  that 
stood  there.  She  had  the  news  from  Roxy 
Griever. 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Lance  indefinitely,  and 
offered  no  question  as  to  what  the  lands  had 
brought  or  whether  the  deal  was  actually  closed. 

"Sylvane  said  Gran'pappy  met  him  in  the  big 
road,  and  he  said  that  them  that  didn't  sell  now, 
or  that  just  give  options,  would  be  sorry  after- 
wards. He  thinks  the  Company's  mistaken  about 


The  Hegira  273 

the  coal  being  on  this  side  o'  the  ridge,  and  that 
they'll  soon  find  it  out  and  quit  buying." 

"That  so?"  laughed  Lance.  "Well,  in  that 
case,  I  sha'n't  make  no  efforts.  I'd  hate  to  get 
anything  off  the  Company  that  wasn't  coming  to 
me,  and  I  reckon — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  Callista  had  turned  to 
face  him,  white,  angry  as  he  had  never  seen  her 
before.  Her  blue  eyes  rounded  meaningly  to  the 
downy  poll  of  the  baby  sitting  on  the  floor  between 
them.  This  was  how  much  he  cared  for  the 
up-bringing  and  the  future  of  the  child. 

"Lance  Cleaverage,"  she  said  in  a  low,  even 
tone,  "a  woman  that's  married  to  a  man,  and 
lived  with  him  for  two  years,  and  got  his  child  to 
raise,  ought  to  quit  him  for  such  a  speech  as  that." 

This  was  the  ultimate  challenge.  Here  was  the 
gage  thrown  down.  She  dared  him.  He  leaned 
forward  to  lift  back  the  boy,  who  was  clambering 
once  more  for  the  banjo.  Then  he  straightened 
up  and  looked  his  Callista  full  in  the  eye,  breathing 
light  and  evenly,  half  smiling,  his  face  strangely 
luminous. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  rang  keen- 
edged  and  vibrant.     "  If  them's  your  ruthers  - 
walk   out.     What's    a'keepin'    you?     Shain't   be 
said  I  ever  hendered  a  woman  that  wanted  to 
quit  me." 

Very  softly,  Callista  set  down  the  plate  of  bread 
she  held.  Gazing  straight  ahead  of  her,  she  stood 


274  Lance  Cleaverage 

a  moment  rigid,  in  a  waiting,  listening  attitude. 
Out  of  her  mood  of  cold  displeasure,  of  nagging 
resentment,  flamed,  at  her  husband's  words,  that 
sudden  fire  of  relentless  rage  of  which  Callista 
was  capable.  Her  sight  cleared,  and  she  became 
aware  of  what  she  was  staring  at  —  the  wall,  with 
its  well-planned  shelves  of  Lance's  contriving;  the 
beautifully  whittled  utensils  and  small,  dainty 
implements  of  cedar  which  he  had  made  for  her 
use.  Slowly  her  glance  swept  the  circle  of  the 
room.  Evidences  of  Lance's  skill  and  cleverness 
were  everywhere ;  proofs  that  he  had  persistently 
tamed  both  to  the  service  of  wife  and  home.  Yet, 
at  this  moment,  these  things  made  no  appeal. 
Mechanically  she  inspected  her  supper  table,  then 
turned  and  moved  swiftly  across  the  open  passage 
to  the  room  beyond.  Promptly,  unerringly,  she 
gathered  together  a  bundle  of  needments  for 
herself  and  the  child,  thrust  them  in  a  clean  flour 
sack,  and  swung  it  across  her  arm.  Going  back, 
she  found  her  husband  still  sprawled  in  the  door- 
way, his  side  face  held  to  the  darkening  interior  of 
the  room  behind  him.  Banjo  on  knee,  he  leaned 
against  the  lintel,  whistling  beneath  his  breath, 
his  eyes  on  the  far  primrose  band  of  light  dying 
down  in  the  west. 

Callista  gave  no  further  glance  at  the  home 
which  had  been  much  to  her.  She  averted  her 
gaze  stonily  from  the  husband  who  had  once  been 
all.  Bending,  with  a  single  motion  she  swept  the 


The  Hegira  275 

baby  up  in  her  arm,  raised  him  to  her  shoulder  and 
stepped  to  the  open  doorway.  Lance  never 
turned  his  head  or  seemed  to  note  her.  He  made 
room  for  her  passage  without  appearing  to  move  a 
muscle.  Out  she  went  and  down  to  the  gate  - 
a  real  gate,  that  swung  true  and  did  not  drag; 
Lance's  planning  and  handiwork.  She  unlatched 
it,  passed  through,  and  drew  it  shut  behind  her, 
never  looking  back. 

And  with  scarcely  a  change  of  attitude  and 
expression,  except  that  his  fingers  twitched  a  bit 
and  the  smile  on  his  lean,  brown,  young  face  became 
set  and  unnatural,  he  watched  her  evenly  swaying 
figure  pass  on  down  the  road.  Head  defiantly 
erect,  eyes  strangely  bright,  Lance  stared  mean- 
inglessly,  like  a  man  shot  through  but  not  yet 
crumpling  to  his  fall.  The  baby  fluttered  a  fat, 
white,  little  starfish  of  a  hand  over  his  mother's 
shoulder  and  called  "Bye-by,"  the  sum  of  all  his 
attainments  in  the  matter  of  language. 

The  man  did  not  look  up.  His  head  was  bent 
now,  his  gaze  had  forsaken  the  slender  new  moon 
swinging  like  a  boat  in  the  greenish  haze  of  the 
western  sky,  where  some  smoldering  coals  of 
sunset  yet  sent  up  gray  twilight  smoke. 

Callista  vanished  between  the  trees.  It  was 
dusk,  and  deeply  still.  Down  in  the  alders, 
beside  the  spring  branch,  the  whippoorwills  were 
calling.  In  the  intervals  of  their  far,  plaintive 
importunity,  the  silence  was  punctuated  lightly 


276  Lance  Cleaverage 

by  the  tiny,  summer-evening  chirpings  in  the 
grass. 

The  moon  sank  lower,  the  sunset  coals  burned 
into  swart  cinders ;  the  hosts  of  the  dark  marched 
in  upon  the  still  figure  on  the  doorstone  where 
Lance  crouched  motionless,  his  face  drooped 
almost  to  the  threshold,  his  arms  flung  forward 
till  they  touched  the  nodding  weeds  by  the  path. 
So  an  hour  counted  itself  out,  and  there  was  no 
change  in  his  posture,  no  lifting  of  the  head.  The 
little  moon  finally  dropped  down  behind  the  hills ; 
dew  lay  thick  on  the  curls  beside  the  great  lime- 
stone slab.  About  ten  o'clock  a  cloud  blew  in 
through  the  Gap,  bearing  a  tiny  shower  of  summer 
rain.  Under  the  cool  pattering  that  drenched  his 
hair  and  garments,  Lance  stirred  not  at  all ;  but  all 
the  noises  of  the  July  night  were  hushed  by  it, 
and  in  the  chill  which  followed,  he  shivered.  Deep 
in  the  night's  silent  heart,  a  bird  cried  out ;  Lance 
started  and  raised  his  face  to  the  darkness  with  a 
sort  of  groan. 

"And  this  time  she  won't  come  back,"  he 
whispered. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CALLISTA   CLEAVERAGE   GOES   HOME. 

CALLISTA  reached  her  grandfather's  gate 
when  the  old  man  was  just  finishing  that  last 
pipe  he  loved  to  smoke  in  his  big  hickory  arm 
chair  on  the  porch  before  he  lay  down  for  his 
night's  rest.  In  the  soft,  summer  night,  beginning 
to  be  thick  with  stars,  he  was  aware  that  who- 
ever the  newcomer  was,  it  was  someone  well 
known  to  the  dogs,  for  the  chorus  of  greetings  was 
distinctly  friendly.  Yet  his  keen  old  hunter's 
ears  noticed  the  surprised  yap  of  a  younger 
hound  born  since  Callista  left  the  farm;  and 
when  his  granddaughter  emerged  into  the  light 
of  the  doorway,  he  was  scarcely  surprised. 

"  Good  evenin',  Gran'pappy.  Where's  Mother  ?" 
Callista  greeted  him. 

Before  Ajax  could  answer  her,  his  daughter-in- 
law  came  hurrying  out  crying, 

"  Lord  love  yo'  soul,  honey !  Did  you  git  home 
at  last  to  see  yo'  mammy  that's  — " 

Callista  silenced  her  with  a  raised  hand. 

"  W'y,  Callisty  honey,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gentry, 
examining  her  anxiously,  "is  anything  the  mat- 
ter with  Lance?" 

A  slight  contraction  passed  across  the  visitor's 
277 


278  Lance  Cleaverage 

face,  as  they  watched  it,  but  she  answered  coldly, 
evenly, 

"I  reckon  there's  nothing  more  the  matter  of 
Lance  Cleaverage  than  there  always  has  been. 
I've  come  home." 

Dead  silence  followed  this  statement.  Then 
old  Ajax  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and 
slowly  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Uh-huh,"  he  agreed,  "you've  come  home - 
and  I  always  knowed  you  would." 

Octavia  turned  on  him  crying  in  a  voice  more 
tremulous  with  tears  than  anger, 

"  Now,  Pap  Gentry  — " 

But  Callista  interposed,  with  the  faintest  flicker 
of  her  old  fire, 

"Let  him  have  his  say.     I  told  you-all  once, 
standin'  right  here  on  this  porch,  that  I'd  never 
come  home  to   this  house  with   empty  hands  - 
that   I'd  bring  something.     Well,    I   have.     I've 
brought  this  child." 

Octavia  was  striving  to  take  the  baby  from  his 
mother's  arms,  to  draw  Callista  into  the  house. 
At  this  she  began  to  cry, 

"Make  her  hush,  Pap  Gentry,"  she  pleaded. 
"  Don't  set  there  and  let  my  gal  talk  that-a-way ! " 

But  old  Ajax,  remembering  the  turbulent  days 
of  his  youth,  knowing  from  his  own  wild  heart  in 
those  long  past  days  the  anger  that  burned  in 
Callista,  and  must  have  way,  wisely  offered  no 
interference. 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     279 

"I've  come  home  to  stay,"  Callista  pursued 
bitterly,  "and  I've  brought  my  boy.  But  ye 
needn't  be  afraid  of  seein'  us  come.  Sence  I 
lived  here  I've  learned  how  to  work.  I  can  earn 
my  way,  and  his,  too." 

"Callista,"  sobbed  the  mother,  clinging  to  her 
daughter,  still  seeking  to  draw  her  forward, 
"you're  welcome  here;  and,  if  anything,  the  boy 
is  welcomer.  We  ain't  got  nobody  but  you. 
Pappy,  make  her  welcome;  tell  her  that  we're 
proud  to  have  her  as  long  as  she's  willin'  to  stay, 
and  —  and  -  "  she  hesitated  desperately  —  "  we'd 
be  proud  to  have  Lance,  too." 

She  instantly  saw  her  mistake.  Callista  drew 
herself  sharply  from  her  mother's  detaining  arms 
and  sat  down  on  the  porch  edge,  hushing  the 
child  whom  their  talk  had  disturbed.  Presently 
she  said  —  and  her  voice  sounded  low,  and  cold, 
and  clear, 

"I  have  quit  Lance  Cleaverage.  You  needn't 
name  his  being  anywhere  that  I'm  at." 

Gentry  snorted,  and  heaved  himself  up  in  his 
chair  as  though  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  I  consider  that  I  had  good  cause  to  quit  him," 
Callista  went  on;  "but  I'm  not  a-goin'  to  — " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  yo'  reasons!"  broke 
in  old  Ajax  fiercely.  "  I  say,  reason !  Reason 
and  you  ort  not  to  be  named  in  the  same  day. 
Yo'  mammy  spiled  you  rotten  —  I  told  her  so, 
a-many's  the  time  —  and  now  them  that  wishes 


280 


you  well  has  to  look  on  and  see  you  hit  out  and 
smash  things." 

The  deep,  rumbling  old  voice  sank  and  quavered 
toward  the  end. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  give  you  any  reasons," 
returned  Callista  contemptuously.  "Them  that 
I've  got  are  betwixt  me  and  Lance  —  and  there 
they'll  always  be.  I  would  rather  live  at  home; 
but  I  can  earn  my  keep  and  the  chap's  anywhere. 
Shall  I  go  —  or  stay?  " 

The  old  man  put  down  a  shaking  hand  and  laid 
it  on  her  shoulder  —  a  tremendous  demonstration 
for  Ajax  Gentry. 

"You'll  stay,  gal,"  he  said  in  a  broken  tone. 
"You'll  stay,  and  welcome.  But  I  want  you 
to  know  right  here  and  now  that  I  think  Lance 
Cleaverage  is  a  mighty  fine  man.  You'  my  gran'- 
child  —  my  onliest  one  —  I  set  some  considerable 
store  by  ye  myse'f.  But  there's  nothing  you've 
said  or  done  that  gives  me  cause  to  change  my 
mind  about  Lance." 

Callista  rose,  still  hushing  her  boy  in  her  arms. 

"If  I'm  to  live  with  you-all,"  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  authority  which  had  never  been  hers  in  the 
days  of  her  petted,  spoiled  girlhood,  "  I  may  as 
well  speak  out  plain  and  say  that  I  never  want  to 
hear  the  name  of  Cleaverage  if  I  can  help  it.  If 
you  don't  agree  to  that  —  without  any  why  or 
wherefore  —  I'd  rather  not  stay." 

"Oh,  honey  —  oh,  honey!"   protested  Octavia 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     281 

tearfully.  "Gran'pappy  and  me  will  do  just 
whatever  you  say.  Fetch  the  baby  in  the  house. 
God  love  his  little  soul,  hit's  the  first  time  he's  ever 
been  inside  of  these  doors  —  and  to  think  he 
should  come  this-a-way! " 

Callista  drew  back  and  eyed  her  mother. 

"If  you're  going  to  go  on  like  that,"  she  said, 
"  I  reckon  it  would  be  just  as  well  for  me  to  live 
somewheres  else.  You  won't  see  me  shed  a  tear. 
I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  cry  for.  Gran'- 
pappy is  an  old  man  —  he  ought  to  have  some 
peace  about  him.  I  won't  come  in  unless  you 
hush." 

And  having  laid  her  will  upon  them  both, 
Callista  Cleaverage  re-entered  the  dwelling  of  her 
girlhood  and  disposed  her  sleeping  boy  on  the  bed 
in  the  fore  room. 

To  the  mind  of  man,  which  looks  always  to 
"find  noise  and  displacement  commensurate  with 
size,  there  is  something  appalling  about  the  way 
in  which  the  great  events  of  life  slip  smoothly  into 
position,  fitting  themselves  between  our  days 
with  such  nicety  as  to  seem  always  to  have  been 
there.  Little  calamities  jar  and  fret  and  refuse  to 
be  adjusted,  but  matters  of  life  and  death  and 
eternity  flow  as  smoothly  as  water. 

Callista  might  have  dropped  easily  into  her  old 
place  in  the  home,  but  the  woman  who  had 
returned  to  the  Gentry  roof  could  never  have 
contented  herself  in  that  narrow  sphere.  Strong, 


282  Lance  Cleaverage 

efficient,  driven  to  tireless  activity  by  memories 
which  one  might  guess  stung  and  hurt  the  mind  at 
leisure,  she  cleared  out  the  long  unused  weaving 
room  and  set  the  loom  to  work. 

"Aunt  Faithful  Bushares  learned  me  to  weave 
whilst  I  was  stayin'  at  Miz.  Griever's,  after  the 
baby  was  born,"  she  told  her  mother.  "  I'll  finish 
this  rag  carpet  you've  got  in  the  loom,  and  then 
I'll  be  able  to  earn  some  ready  money.  I  can 
weave  mighty  pretty  carpet,  and  a  body  can  get  a 
plenty  of  it  to  do  from  down  in  the  Settlement. 
They's  things  I  need  from  the  store  now  and  agin, 
and  this  boy's  got  to  have  something  laid  by  for 
him,  to  take  care  of  him  as  he  grows." 

Thus  boldly,  at  the  outset  —  though  without 
mentioning  the  forbidden  name  —  she  made  it 
known  to  them  that  she  would  accept  nothing  from 
her  husband.  Octavia  Gentry  was  always  on 
the  edge  of  tears  when  she  talked  to  Callista  about 
her  plans ;  at  other  times,  the  daughter's  presence 
in  the  house  was  cheerful  and  sustaining.  If 
Callista  brooded  on  the  shipwreck  of  her  affairs, 
she  asked  no  sympathy  from  anyone.  Indeed, 
so  far  from  seeking  it,  she  resented  bitterly  any 
suggestion  of  the  sort. 

Lance's  own  family  blamed  him  more  than  did 
Callista's  people.  Roxy  Griever,  of  course,  was 
loud  in  her  denunciations. 

"  Hit's  jest  the  trick  a  body  might  expect  from 
one  of  tham  men,"  she  commented.  "He  never 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     283 

was  fitten  for  Callisty;  and  when  a  feller  plumb 
outmarries  hisself,  looks  like  hit  makes  a  fool 
of  him,  and  he  cain't  noways  behave." 

Old  Kimbro  gazed  upon  the  floor. 

"I  reckon  it's  my  fault,  Roxana,"  he  said 
gently.  "  Lance  has  a  strong  nature,  and  he 
needed  better  discipline  than  what  I  was  able 
to  give  him.  I  had  my  hopes  that  he'd  get  it  in 
his  marriage,  for  daughter  Callista  is  sure  a  fine 
woman ;  but  —  well,  maybe  time'll  mend  it.  I 
don't  give  up  all  hope  yet." 

"Miz.  Gentry  sent  word  that  she  wanted  me 
to  help  them  through  fodder-pullin',"  Sylvane 
announced.  "If  I  do,  I'm  a-goin'  to  watch  my 
chance  to  talk  to  Sis'  Gallic.  She's  always  the 
sweetest  thing  to  me.  I'll  bet  I  can  get  in  a  good 
word  for  Buddy." 

But  it  was  Roxy  Griever  who  saw  Callista 
before  Sylvane  did.  Octavia,  desperately  anx- 
ious and  perturbed,  sent  word  to  the  widow  to 
drop  in  as  though  by  accident  and  spend  the  day. 
Callista  came  into  the  room  without  knowing  who 
was  present.  The  two  women  were  fluttering 
about  over  her  baby,  exclaiming  and  admiring. 
The  young  mother  greeted  the  visitor  with  an 
ordinary  manner,  which  yet  was  a  trifle  cold. 

"The  boy's  mighty  peart,"  the  Widow  Griever 
said  eagerly.  "But,"  examining  Callista  with 
a  somewhat  timid  eye,  "you'  lookin'  a  little 
puny  yo'self,  Sis'  Callie." 


284  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Oh,  I'm  perfectly  well,"  returned  Callista 
sharply. 

There  fell  a  silence,  upon  which  Roxy's  voice 
broke,  husky  and  uncertain. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  won't  harbor  no  hard 
feelin's  toward  any  of  Lance's  kin-folks,  for  we 
don't  none  of  us  uphold  him." 

At  the  name  a  quiver  went  through  Callista's 
frame,  the  blue  eyes  fixed  on  Roxy's  face  flickered 
a  bit  in  their  steady,  almost  fierce  regard.  Then 
she  bent  and  picked  up  her  child. 

"I  reckon  Mother  hasn't  said  anything  to  you," 
she  explained  evenly ;  "  but  I  have  asked  each  and 
every  in  this  house  not  to  say —  You  spoke  a  name 
that  I  won't  hear  from  anybody  if  I  can  help  it. 
If  you  and  me  are  to  sit  down  at  the  same  table, 
you'll  have  to  promise  not  to  mention  that  - 
that  person  again." 

Then  she  walked  out,  leaving  the  two  older 
women  staring  at  each  other,  aghast,  both  of  them 
with  tears  in  their  eyes. 

"But  I  cain't  blame  her,"  Roxana  hastened 
to  declare.  "  I  know  in  my  soul  that  every- 
thing that's  chanced  is  Lance's  fault.  He  always 
was  the  meanest  little  boy,  and  the  worst  big 
boy,  and  the  sinfulest  young  man,  that  ever 
a  God-fearin'  father  had!  He  never  was  half 
way  fitten  for  Callista  —  and  I  always  said 
so." 

"Oh,  Miz.  Griever  —  hush!"  protested  Octavia. 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     285 

"  She'll  hear  you  —  Sis'  ain't  but  gone  in  the  next 
room." 

"Well,  I  hope  she  may,"  the  widow  pursued 
piously,  in  a  slightly  raised  tone.  "I'd  hate 
mightily  to  have  my  sweet  Sis'  Callie  think  that 
I  held  with  any  sech ;  or  that  I  didn't  know  what 
her  troubles  had  been,  or  didn't  feel  that  she  was 
plumb  jestified  and  adzactly  right  in  all  points  and 
in  all  ways  whatever." 

"  M — maybe  she  is , "  sniffed  soft-hearted  Octavia ; 
"but  I  love  Lance  mighty  well.  Right  now  I 
could  jest  break  down  and  bawl  when  I  think  o' 
him  there  in  the  cabin  all  alone  by  himself,  and  — 

The  closing  words  were  lost  in  the  apron  she 
raised  to  her  eyes.  If  Callista  heard  the  contro- 
versy, it  had  an  odd  effect;  for  she  treated  the 
Widow  Griever  with  considerable  resentment,  and, 
laying  a  gentle  hand  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  said 
to  her  apart : 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  torment  to  you,  Mammy ; 
but  I  believe  when  any  of  those  folks  are  about  I'd 
better  just  take  the  baby  and  stay  in  my  own 
house." 

"But,  honey,"  her  mother  remonstrated, 
"Pappy  Gentry's  aimin'  to  have  Sylvanus  here 
all  through  fodder-pullin'  time.  Is  that  a-goin' 
to  trouble  you?  Do  you  just  despise  all  them 
that's  kin  to  —  would  you  ruther  we  didn't  have 
the  boy?" 

Callista  shook  her  head. 


286  Lance  Cleaverage 

"  It  ain't  for  me  to  say,  "she  repeated  stubbornly 
Then,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  tears  in  her  hard 
eyes,  "I  do  love  Sylvane.  I  always  did.  I 
couldn't  have  an  own  brother  I'd  think  more  of. 
But  —  well,  let  him  come  over  here  if  you  want 
him.  I  can  keep  out  of  his  way." 

The  "house"  to  which  Callista  proposed  to 
retire  was  the  outside  cabin,  where  the  loom  stood. 
This  she  had  fitted  up  for  the  use  of  herself  and 
child,  as  well  as  a  weaving  room,  saying  that  the 
noise  might  disturb  Gran'pappy  if  the  baby  were  in 
the  house  all  the  time.  And  it  was  at  the  thresh- 
old of  that  outside  cabin  that,  only  a  few  days 
later,  Sylvane  caught  his  sister-in-law  and  de- 
tained her,  the  baby  on  her  arm.  Little  Ajax 
reared  himself  in  his  mother's  hold  and  plunged 
at  his  youthful  uncle,  so  that  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  turn  and  speak. 

"How  you  come  on,  Sis'  Callie?"  Sylvane 
inquired,  after  he  had  tossed  the  heavy  boy 
up  a  time  or  two  and  finally  set  him  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Tol'able,"  Callista  returned  briefly.  "  I've  got 
a  lot  of  weavin'  to  do  and  it  keeps  me  in  the  house 
pretty  steady." 

"I  —  was  you  leavin'  in  thar  becaze  I  come?  " 
inquired  Sylvane  with  a  boy's  directness. 

Callista  shook  her  head. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  mighty  busy?"  she 
asked  evasively.  "  You  an'  me  always  have  been 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     287 

good  friends,  Sylvane,  and  I  aim  that  we  always 
shall  be,  if  it  lies  in  my  power." 

The  young  fellow  looked  up  at  her  where  she 
stood  above  him  in  the  doorway. 

"You  ain't  never  a-goin'  to  fuss  with  me," 
he  told  her  bluntly.  "  Besides,  me  and  this  chap 
is  so  petted  on  each  other  that  you  couldn't 
keep  us  apart,"  and  he  turned  to  root  a  laughing 
face  into  the  baby's  side,  greatly  to  that  serious- 
minded  young  man's  enjoyment. 

Callista  smiled  down  at  both  of  them,  and  Syl- 
vane found  something  wintiy  and  desolate  in  the 
smile. 

"Weavin'  is  mighty  hard  work,"  he  broke  out 
impatiently.  "  Even  Sis'  Roxy  says  that,  and  the 
Lord  knows  she's  ready  to  kill  herself  and  every- 
body else  around  her  with  workin'.  What  makes 
you  do  so  much  of  it,  Sis'  Callie?  " 

Callista  looked  past  the  two  and  answered : 

"  Sylvane,  a  woman  with  a  child  to  support  has 
to  work  hard  here  in  the  Turkey  Tracks.  If  it 
wasn't  for  Mommie  and  Gran'pappy  I'd  go  down 
in  the  Settlement,  where  I  could  earn  more  and 
earn  it  easier." 

"Callista  —  honey,"  Sylvane  bent  forward  and 
caught  her  arm.  "You  ain't  got  no  call  to  talk 
that-a-way.  Lance  shore  has  a  right  to  support 
his  own  son  —  even  if  you  won't  take  nothin'  from 
him  for  yo'self." 

Callista  removed  her  gaze  from  the  far  sky  line, 


288  Lance  Cleaverage 

and  brought  it  down  to  her  young  brother-in-law. 
Now  indeed  her  smile  was  wintry,  even  bitter. 

"The  man  you  named,  Sylvane,"  she  said 
explicitly,  "has  no  notion  of  carin'  what  becomes 
of  this  child.  Now  that  you've  brought  this  up, 
I'll  say  to  you  what  I  haven't  said  to  any  other : 
it  was  this  that  caused  me  to  quit  Lance.  You' 
right,  I  did  leave  the  house  in  there  for  fear  you 
should  speak  to  me  —  and  speak  of  him.  If  I 
could  be  sure  that  I'd  never  hear  his  name  again, 
I'd  be  better  suited.  I  reckon  you'll  have  to 
promise  not  to  bring  this  up  again,  or  they'll  sure 
get  to  be  hard  feelings  between  you  and  me." 

Sylvane  dropped  back  with  a  face  of  consterna- 
tion, his  hand  fell  away  from  her  arm.  He  reached 
up  and  drew  the  boy  down,  so  that  the  small,  fair 
face  was  against  his  breast. 

"Sis'  Callie,"  he  began  incredulously,  "I  cain't 
believe  it.  Buddy's  got  quare  ways,  but  them 
that  loves  him  can  understand.  His  own  son  —  ! 
Why,  ef  the  chap  was  mine  -  He  broke  off, 
and  stood  a  moment  in  silence.  "The  meanest 
man  there  is,  looks  like  to  me,  ort  to  be  glad  to  do 
for  his  own  child." 

The  words  were  not  so  strange  on  the  lips  of  the 
tall  seventeen-year-old  boy  with  the  child's  eyes, 
since  in  mountain  communities  youths  little  older 
are  often  husbands  and  fathers. 

"Well,  air  you  going  to  promise  me  never  to 
name  it  again?"  demanded  Callista,  an  almost 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     289 

querulous  edge  to  her  voice.  Sylvane's  resem- 
blance to  his  brother,  some  gnawing  knowledge  of 
injustice  toward  the  absent  Lance,  wrought  upon 
her  mood  intolerably. 

"No,  I'll  never  name  Buddy  to  you  again,"  said 
Sylvane  soberly.  "If  you  and  me  ever  talks  of 
him,  you'll  have  to  mention  it  first.  But  if  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Sis'  Callie,  you  know 
you  have  but  to  ask." 

"I  know  that,  Sylvane,"  Callista  assured  him, 
with  a  certain  eagerness  in  her  tone.  "  And  they 
is  something  —  something  that  I  reckon  nobody 
could  do  as  well  as  you  could.  I  need  —  I  just 
have  obliged  to  get  my  things  from  —  from  up  yon 
in  the  Gap.  Would  you  go  fetch  'em  for  me, 
Brother?" 

Sylvane,  after  all,  was  kin  to  Lance.  He  could 
not  keep  down  a  little  thrill  of  pride,  that  his 
brother  had  thus  far  forced  Callista' s  hand.  But 
he  answered  gravely  —  almost  sadly, 

"  I'll  go  this  day,  if  you  say  so." 

Securing  permission  from  Ajax  to  absent  himself, 
the  boy  hitched  his  old  mule  to  the  buckboard  and 
hurried  off  to  the  home  at  the  head  of  Lance's 
Laurel.  Whether  or  not  he  found  all  of  Callista's 
belongings  packed  and  ready,  what  was  said  be- 
tween the  two  men,  no  one  knew.  He  returned 
near  nightfall  with  Callista's  trunk  and  one  or  two 
sizable  bundles,  while  Spotty  meekly  led  roped  to 
the  rear  axle  of  the  buckboard.  Callista  helped 


29°  Lance  Cleaverage 

him  into  her  cabin  with  the  bundles ;  but  when  he 
would  have  untied  Spotty  she  remonstrated. 

"I  surely  thought  you  were  fixing  to  take  the 
cow  over  to  yo'  house,"  she  said  shortly.  "It 
doesn't  belong  here." 

"  It  was  said  to  be  yours,"  Sylvane  told  her,  true 

to  his  promise  not  to  mention  his  brother's  name, 

even  inferentially.     "  I  'lowed  that  the  baby  and 

-  and  all  —  would  need  the  milk.     Reckon  you 

best  leave  her  stay." 

"No,"  said  Callista  positively.  "The  cow's 
nothing  I  have  any  concerns  with.  Maybe  Sis' 
Roxy  could  make  use  of  the  milk.  Take  her  along 
home,  Sylvane,  or  drive  her  back  where  she  came 
from  —  or  turn  her  loose,  for  all  of  me." 

And  then  Sylvane  knew  whether  his  brother  had 
failed  in  care  for  the  child. 

When  Callista  came  in  from  disposing  of  this 
question  of  the  cow,  she  found  her  mother  stand- 
ing, inclined,  as  usual,  to  be  tearful,  over  the  boxes 
and  bundles.  Coming  on  one  of  these  latter  with 
a  peculiar  knot  which  Lance  always  used,  and 
which  he  had  once  taught  her  the  secret  of, 
Callista  experienced  a  sick  revulsion  of  feeling. 

"  I  wish  you'd  undo  'em  and  put  'em  away  for 
me,  Mammy,"  she  said  with  unusual  gentleness. 
"I  think  I  hear  the  baby." 

"All  right,  honey,  go  'long  and  'tend  to  him. 
I'll  see  to  these,"  agreed  Octavia  patiently. 

Callista  hurried  over  to  the  big  house  where 


Callista  Cleaverage  Goes  Home     291 

young  Ajax  lay  asleep,  and,  as  chance  would  have 
it,  found  indeed  that  he  had  wakened.  She  was 
hushing  him  on  her  knee  a  few  minutes  later,  when 
her  mother  appeared  in  the  doorway,  a  little  money 
held  in  her  trembling  hands,  and  her  eyes  now 
openly  overflowing. 

"That  pore  boy!"  Octavia  burst  out.  "Look 
what  he  sent  you,  Sis!  Now,  he  hain't  sold  any- 
thing of  his  crop  —  not  yet.  The  good  Lord  only 
knows  whar  he  come  by  this ;  but  what  he  could 
get  his  hands  on,  he's  sent  you." 

Callista  leaped  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  the  door, 
pushing  her  mother  aside  none  too  gently,  offend- 
ing Ajax  greatly  by  her  rough  handling  of  him. 

"Sylvane!"  she  cried  in  the  direction  of  the 
horse  lot  where  Sylvane  had  gone  to  exchange  the 
harness  for  a  saddle  on  the  mule.  "  Whoo-ee  — 
Sylvane!" 

"I'm  a-comin',"  Sylvane's  voice  answered,  and 
she  turned  swiftly  to  the  bed  and  laid  the  baby 
down. 

"Give  me  that  money!"  she  demanded. 

"What  for?"  asked  Octavia  with  unexpected 
spirit,  tucking  the  bills  in  against  her  arm  and 
refusing  them. 

"  I  want  to  send  it  back  by  Sylvane." 

"You  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  any  such  thing," 
Octavia  declared.  "The  good  Lord!  To  think 
that  I  ever  raised  such  a  gal  as  you  air!" 

"Give  it  to  me!"    Callista  laid  hands  upon  her 


292  Lance  Cleaverage 

mother's  arm,  wrenching  at  it.  "  Here's  Sylvane. 
Give  it  to  me  now!" 

The  thud  of  the  mule's  hoofs  approaching  the 
door  came  clearly  to  both  of  them.  Callista  could 
even  distinguish  the  little  cow's  light  feet  following. 

The  two  wrestled  and  swayed  a  moment, 
Callista  pushing  a  strong,  capable  hand  into  the 
elbow  where  the  bills  and  the  few  coins  were  held. 

"  Take  it,  then.  Oh,  my  Lord ! "  moaned  Octavia. 
"I  think  you're  the  hard-heartedest  somebody  I 
ever  knew  of.  Pore  Lance  —  pore  Lance!" 

Sylvane,  riding  to  the  door  with  the  rejected 
cow,  received  with  something  of  Lance's  stoic  grace 
the  despised  money.  A  thankfulness  that  his 
"  Buddy' '  was  rehabilitated  in  his  eyes  made  him 
say,  as  he  stuffed  the  small  wad  down  in  his 
pocket : 

"An'  I  don't  take  back  my  word,  Sis'  Callie. 
You  wouldn't  have  these ;  but  whatever  I  can  do 
is  ready  and  waitin',  you  know  that." 

And  somehow,  in  the  hour  of  her  victory,  Callista 
tasted  defeat. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

DRAWN    BLANK. 

FOR  a  region  of  dwellers  so  scattered  as  those 
of  the  Turkey  Tracks,  the  word  neighborhood 
is  a  misnomer.  Where  the  distances  are  so  great 
from  house  to  house,  where  there  is  no  telephone, 
no  milkman  on  regular  rounds,  no  gossiping  ser- 
vants, one  would  have  said  that  Callista  might  go 
home  to  her  grandfather's  and  live  amonth  without 
anyone  suggesting  that  there  had  been  a  serious 
rupture  between  herself  and  Lance.  But  news  of 
this  sort  travels  in  a  mysterious  way  through  the 
singularly  intimate  life  of  these  thinly  settled, 
isolated  highlands.  The  first  comers  who  saw 
Callista  and  her  baby  at  the  Gentry  place  knew  in 
some  curious  fashion  that  she  had  forsaken  Lance. 
Perhaps  it  was  her  air  of  permanence  in  the  new 
home  which  was  her  old  one;  perhaps  it  was  the 
fact  that  she  had  established  her  little  household 
of  two  in  that  outside  cabin.  However  it  may  be, 
Buck  Fuson  rode  straight  from  the  Gentry  place 
to  Derf  s  with  the  information  —  and  found  it 
there  before  him. 

"Iley's  man  seen  her  jest  at  the  aidge  o'  the 
evenin',  streakin'  through  the  woods  'crost  the 
holler  with  the  chap  on  her  hip,  and  a  bundle  over 

293 


294  Lance  Cleaverage 

her  shoulder,"  Garrett  Derf  explained.  "Them 
Injuns  is  smart  about  some  things.  He  said  to 
Iley  when  he  come  home  that  Lance's  squaw  had 
done  shook  him.  Well!" 

Gossip  is  generally  personified  as  an  old  woman, 
but  the  men  of  a  region  like  the  Turkey  Tracks 
are  much  thrown  back  upon  it  for  an  interest. 

"  Looks  like  Callisty  never  had  been  greatly 
petted  on  Lance,"  Fuson  put  forward,  flinging  a 
leg  around  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  and  sitting  at 
ease. 

Derf  shook  his  head. 

"I  reckon  she's  like  any  other  womern,"  he  de- 
precated, with  a  sort  of  passive  scorn.  "You  can 
spile  the  best  of  'em.  When  Lance  come  over 
here  the  day  after  him  and  Callisty  was  wed  and 
sot  up  housekeeping  and  he  showed  hisse'f  plumb 
crazy  to  spend  money  on  her,  I  says  to  myse'f, 
says  I,  '  Yes,  an'  there'll  be  trouble  in  that  fambly 
befo'  snow  flies.' ' 

He  nodded  with  an  air  of  one  who  utters  the 
final  wisdom,  and  Fuson  could  but  agree. 

"That's  a  fact,"  assented  Buck,  as  one  who 
knew  something  of  the  matter  himself.  "  Man 
can  pay  out  all  he's  worth,  and  still  not  satisfy 
a  woman." 

"Satisfy  her!"  echoed  Derf.  "Don't  I  tell  you 
that  it's  the  ruination  of  the  best  of  'em  ?  They'll 
ax  ye  for  anything,  and  then  when  they  git  it 
they'll  quit  ye,  or  turn  ye  out  and  pop  the  do' 


Drawn  Blank  295 

in  yo'  face.  Lance  was  jest  that-a-way.  He 
wouldn't  take  a  dare.  Ef  Callisty  said  she  wanted 
the  moon,  and  let  on  like  she  thought  he  was  able 
to  git  it,  he'd  say  nothin'  and  try  to  grab  it  for 
her." 

"Ain't  that  Flent  Hands's  hawse?"  asked  Fuson 
suddenly,  as  Cindy  trotted  across  the  small  home 
pasture  and  came  to  the  fence. 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Derf,  and  the  two  men 
steadily  avoided  looking  at  each  other.  "Flent, 
he  put  the  nag  here  with  us  so  as  to  be  handy. 
Him  and  me's  got  a  trade  up  for  openin'  a  store 
in  the  Settlement,  him  to  run  that  end  o'  the 
business  and  me  to  run  this  end.  Don't  know 
how  it'll  turn  out.  He's  been  a-comin'  and  a-goin' 
considerable,  and  he  left  the  filly  with  us.  Says 
he  aims  to  take  her  away  to-morrow." 

"Alf  Dease  'lowed  to  me  that  Lance  was  sort  o' 
pestered  'count  of  Flent  havin'  the  filly,"  Fuson 
murmured  abstractedly.  "Said  Lance  wanted 
him  to  see  could  he  buy  her  back.  I  reckon  he 
couldn't  go  to  Hands  himself — Lance  couldn't  — 
way  things  air;  but  it  seems  he  axed  Dease  to 
do  it." 

Derf  was  silent  a  moment,  then, 

"Some  says  that  Lance  Cleaverage  is  fixin'  to 
sell  and  go  to  Texas,"  he  opened  out  categorically. 
"I've  always  been  good  friends  with  the  feller, 
but  I  tell  you  right  here  and  now,  I'd  be  glad  to 
see  the  last  of  him.  He's  got  his  word  out  agin 


296  Lance  Cleaverage 

Flenton  Hands,  and,  whenever  them  two  meets, 
there's  liable  to  be  interruptions.  I'm  a  peaceful 
man,  and  I  aim  to  keep  a  peaceful  place,  and  I 
ain't  got  any  use  for  sech.  I  wish't  Lance  would 
see  it  that-a-way  and  move  out  —  I  do  for  a  fact." 

Slowly  Fuson  straightened  his  foot  down,  sought 
and  found  his  stirrup;  meditatively  he  switched 
the  mule's  withers  with  the  twig  he  carried,  and 
spoke  to  the  animal,  digging  a  negligent  heel  into 
its  side,  to  start  it. 

"Well,  I  must  be  movin',"  he  said. 

Derf  stood  long,  leaning  on  the  rail  fence,  looking 
absently  after  the  slow  pacing  mule  in  the  dusty 
highway.  He  turned  at  the  sound  of  Ola's  steps 
behind  him.  She  had  a  halter  in  her  hand  and 
was  making  for  the  horse  lot. 

"  I  hearn  what  you  and  Buck  was  talkin'  about," 
she  said  defiantly.  "  I'm  goin'  to  ketch  me  out 
Cindy  and  ride  over  to  Lance's." 

"Oh,  ye  air,  air  ye?"  demanded  her  father. 
"Well,"  with  free  contempt,  "much  good  may  it 
do  ye!" 

But  Ola  was  impervious  to  his  scorn.  A  stone 
wall  was  the  only  barrier  her  direct  methods  recog- 
nized. She  caught  and  saddled  the  filly,  brought 
out  her  black  calico  riding  skirt,  hooked  it  on  over 
her  workaday  frock,  clambered  to  Cindy's  back, 
and  turned  her  into  the  little  frequented  woods- 
road  down  which  Lance  used  to  come  with  his 
banjo  to  play  for  the  dances.  Cindy  put  forward 


Drawn  Blank  297 

her  ears  and  nickered  softly  as  they  neared  her  old 
home,  and  Satan,  running  free  in  a  field  of  stubble 
from  which  Lance  had  gathered  the  corn,  came 
galloping  to  the  boundary  to  stretch  a  friendly 
nose  across  to  his  old  companion.  Ola  looked 
with  relief  at  the  black  horse.  Here  was  assurance 
that  Lance  was  at  home.  Yet,  when  she  got  off, 
tied  the  filly,  and  made  her  way  to  the  cabin,  she 
found  it  all  closed,  silent,  apparently  deserted. 

In  the  mountains,  nobody  raps  on  a  door.  Ola 
gave  the  customary  hail,  her  voice  wavering  on 
the  "hello!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Again  she  tried,  drawing  nearer,  circling  the 
house,  forbearing  to  touch  either  of  the  doors  or 
step  on  the  porch. 

"Hello,  Lance!  Hoo-ee — Lance!"  she  ventured 
finally.  "It's  Ola.  I  got  somethin'  to  say  to  you.'' 

She  stood  long  after  that  effort.  A  wind  went 
by  in  the  oak  leaves,  whispering  to  itself  de- 
risively. The  shabby,  stubbed  little  figure  in 
the  dooryard,  halting  with  rusty  calico  riding  skirt 
dragged  about  her,  choked  and  shivered. 

"I  know  he's  in  thar,"  she  muttered  to  herself 
resentfully,  and  then  marched  straight  up  the  steps 
and  shook  the  door.  The  rattling  of  the  latch 
gave  her  to  understand  that  the  bar  was  dropped. 
People  cannot  go  outside  and  bar  a  door. 

"Lance,"  she  reiterated,  "I  got  somethin'  to 
tell  you  about  Cindy." 


298  Lance  Cleaverage 

The  hound  who  had  accompanied  Lance  and  Ola 
on  many  a  stolen  hunting  trip  or  fishing  excursion 
roused  from  his  slumbers  in  the  barn  and  came 
baying  down  to  greet  her.  She  paid  no  attention 
to  the  dog. 

"  Flent  he's  had  the  filly  at  our  house  for  two 
weeks,"  she  said,  addressing  the  closed  and  barred 
door.  "  He  —  he's  a-aimin'  to  take  her  away 
to-morrow.  Do  you  want  me  to  buy  her  back 
for  you  ?  Lance  —  aw,  say,  Lance  —  do  you  ?  I 
could." 

Outside  were  the  usual  summer  sounds,  the 
rattle  of  the  dog's  feet  on  the  porch  floor  as  he 
capered  about  her.  Within,  hearken  as  she  might, 
the  silence  was  unbroken,  till  suddenly  across  it 
cut,  with  a  sharp  pang  of  melody,  the  twanging  of 
banjo  strings. 

Ola  began  to  cry.  Springing  forward,  she  beat 
fiercely  on  the  door  with  her  palms,  then  laid  hold 
of  its  knob  once  more  to  rattle  it. 

Under  her  touch  it  swung  wide,  revealing  an 
empty  room,  spotlessly  clean,  in  perfect  order, 
with  Lance's  banjo,  yet  humming,  lyingon  the  floor 
where  it  had  fallen  from  its  nail. 

"  I  know  you'  in  thar,"  she  sobbed,  speaking  now 
to  the  four  walls  that  mocked  her  with  a  semblance 
of  welcome.  "This  here  is  jest  like  you,  Lance 
Cleaverage.  This  is  the  way  you  always  treat  a 
friend.  You  ain't  a-lookin',  you  ain't  a-carin'!" 

Her  voice  broke  shrilly  on  the  last  words,  and, 


Drawn  Blank  299 

whirling,  she  sat  down  on  the  step,  flinging  her 
forehead  upon  her  knees,  sobbing,  catching  her 
breath,  and  still  accusing. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  come  here  this-a-way, 
a-hangin'  around  after  you ! "  she  stormed.  "  Hit's 
jest  like  it's  always  been  —  I  cain't  he'p  myself. 
The  good  Lord !  What's  Callisty  Gentry  thinkin' 
of?  —  her  that  had  you,  and  wouldn't  keep  you!" 

Silence.  The  hound  curled  down  at  her  feet. 
Cindy,  pulling  loose  from  her  tether,  cropped  the 
roadside  grass  with  steady,  even  bites.  Callista's 
hollyhocks  nodded  by  the  doorstone.  In  the  room 
there  Callista's  hand  showed  everywhere.  The 
Derf  girl  sobbed  herself  quiet. 

"Lance,"  she  said  heavily  at  length,  getting  to 
her  feet,  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  leave  the  Turkey  Tracks. 
You  won't  see  me  no  more.  I"  —  she  stood  and 
listened  long  —  "well,  good-bye,  Lance." 

She  halted  down  the  steps,  her  glance  over  her 
shoulder  in  the  vacant  room,  so  like  the  empty  ex- 
pressionless face  Lance  used  to  turn  to  her  and  her 
blandishments.  She  got  to  Cindy  and  prepared  to 
mount.  Again  she  waited,  with  her  hand  caught  in 
the  filly's  mane;  but  there  came  no  answer  from 
the  doorway,  no  sound  nor  movement  in  the  house. 
She  climbed  droopingly  to  the  saddle,  and  took 
the  homeward  trail. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

PLENTON    HANDS. 

LANCE  CLEAVERAGE'S  wife  had  been 
many  weeks  in  the  home  of  her  grandfather 
when  it  was  noticed  that  Flenton  Hands  made 
occasion  to  come  very  frequently  to  the  Gentry 
place.  Ajax  was  well  off,  for  the  mountains,  and 
they  had  always  been  hospitable ;  there  was  much 
coming  and  going  about  the  farm;  yet  the  pres- 
ence of  this  visitor  could  not  but  be  noted. 

"  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  speak  to  him,  Pappy," 
Octavia  said  finally.  "  I  had  it  on  the  end  of  my 
tongue  to  name  it  to  him  the  other  day  that  hit 
don't  look  well  for  him  to  come  back  here  a-hangin' 
around  the  wife  of  a  man  that  has  threatened  him. 
I  know  in  my  soul  that  Lance  Cleaverage  would 
not  want  more  than  a  fair  excuse  to  -  Well, 
an'  I  couldn't  blame  him,  neither." 

It  was  evident  to  all  that  Octavia  Gentry, 
though  now  as  ever  she  loved  her  daughter  above 
everything,  could  not  find  it  in  her  soft  heart  to 
censure  Lance.  Indeed  that  heart  bled  for  him 
and  the  sufferings  she  felt  sure  were  his. 

It  chanced  that  Ajax  spoke  to  his  frequent  guest 
the  next  day  and  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter-in- 
law.  Flenton  had  come  on  oneof  his  aimless  visits ; 

300 


Flenton  Hands  301 

he  was  sitting  on  the  porch  edge,  and  Callista  had 
gathered  up  her  baby  and  retreated  to  the  weaving 
room,  whence  the  steady  "thump-a-chug !  thump- 
a-chug!"  of  the  loom  came  across  to  them. 
Flenton's  slaty  gray  eyes  began  to  wander  in  the 
direction  of  the  sounds,  and  Ajax,  prompted  by 
anxious  looks  from  Octavia,  finally  addressed  him. 

"Flenton,"  he  began,  removing  his  pipe  from 
his  lips,  and  examining  its  filling  as  he  spoke, 
"you've  come  here  right  smart  of  late." 

The  visitor  looked  doubtfully  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"Y-yes,  Mr.  Gentry,"  he  allowed  uneasily, 
"  I  have." 

"Uh-huh,"  Ajax  pursued  in  deep,  even  tones. 
"Yo're  welcome  in  this  house,  like  any  other 
neighbor,  and  they  ain't  a  man  on  top  o'  the  Turkey 
Track  mountings  that  can  say  I  ever  shut  my 
door  in  the  face  of  a  friend.  But  —  I'll  ax  you 
fa'r  and  open  —  do  you  think  hit's  wise?  " 

Again  Flenton's  eyes  went  rapidly,  almost 
stealthily,  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"Do  I  think  what's  wise?"  he  finally  man- 
aged to  inquire,  with  fair  composure. 

"Well,"  said  the  elder  man  slowly,  "in  the  first 
place  we'll  say  that  Lance  Cleaverage  ain't  a 
feller  to  fool  with.  We'll  say  that,  and  we'll  lay 
it  by  and  not  name  him  again." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on : 

"  Like  some  several  other  o'  the  boys  hereabouts, 


3°2  Lance  Cleaverage 

you  used  to  think  a  heap  o'  Sis  before  she  was 
wedded.  She's  quit  her  man;  and  do  you  think 
hit's  wise  to  visit  so  much  at  the  house  where 
she's  stayin'  ?  This  matter  consarns  me  and  the 
girl's  mother,  too.  I  take  notice  all  the  rest  o'  the 
boys  lets  Sis  alone.  How  about  you?" 

This  time  Flent  did  not  turn  his  head.  He 
stared  out  over  the  hills  and  made  no  answer  for  so 
long  that  Octavia  spoke  up,  a  tremorof  impatience, 
or  of  resentment,  in  her  voice. 

"  Now,  Flent,  they's  no  use  o'  talkin' ;  of  all  of 
Sis's  lovyers,  you  hung  on  the  longest.  Look  like 
you  wouldn't  take  'no'  for  an  answer.  Why,  the 
very  night  her  and  Lance  was  married,  you  done 
yo'  best  to  step  betwixt  'em.  And  worst  is,  you 
don't  quit  it  now  that  they  air  wedded." 

"Octavy,"  demurred  old  Ajax,  chafed  at  seeing 
a  man  so  bearded  by  one  of  the  weaker  sex, 
"  Flenton  may  have  something  to  say  —  let  him 
speak  for  hisself." 

Thus  encouraged,  Hands  faced  about  toward 
them. 

"No,  I  ain't  never  give  up  Callisty,"  he  said 
doggedly,  "and  I  ain't  never  a-goin'  to.  She's 
quit  her  husband."  Even  in  his  eagerness  he 
did  not  find  it  possible  to  take  Lance's  name  on 
his  lips.  "  She's  left  that  thar  feller  that  never 
done  her  right,  and  never  was  fit  for  her,  to  con- 
sarn  himself  with  his  own  evil  works  and  ways; 
and  she's  come  home  here  to  you-all ;  and  I  don't 


Flenton  Hands  3°3 

see  what  should  interfere  now  between  her  an' 
me." 

Octavia's  comely  face  crimsoned  angrily. 

"  A  married  woman  —  a  wife  — "she  broke  out 
with  vehemence.  But  her  father-in-law  checked 
her  by  a  motion  of  the  hand. 

"  Yes,  Callisty's  quit  Lance  Cleaverage,"  agreed 
Ajax  dryly.  "An'  she's  come  home.  But  I 
reckon  she'll  behave  herself.  Leastways,  she  will 
while  she's  in  my  house." 

At  the  seeming  implication,  Octavia's  fingers 
trembled  in  her  lap,  and  she  turned  a  wounded 
look  upon  Ajax. 

"Well,  Pappy!  You'  no  call-  she  was 
beginning,  when  Flenton,  with  a  manner  almost 
fawning,  interrupted  her. 

"You  don't  rightly  git  my  meaning,  Mr. 
Gentry  —  nor  you,  neither,  Miz.  Gentry,"  he  said 
humbly.  "I've  lived  considerable  in  the  Settle- 
ment. Down  thar,  when  married  people  cain't 
git  along,  and  quits  each  other,  there's  —  there's 
ways  —  Down  in  the  Settlement  — 

He  broke  off  under  the  disconcerting  fire  of 
Ajax's  eye. 

"Oh  —  one  o'  them  thar  ^'-vo'ces,  you  mean?" 
the  old  man  said,  strong  distaste  giving  an  edge  to 
his  deep  voice. 

"  Well,  they  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  none  sech  between 
Lance  and  Callisty,"  Octavia  pro  tested  indignantly. 
"If  that's  what  you'  hangin'  around  for,  you'll 


3°4  Lance  Cleaverage 

have  yo'  trouble  for  yo'  pains,  Flenton  Hands." 
She  got  up  sharply,  went  into  the  house,  and  shut 
the  door,  leaving  the  two  men  together. 

Yet  when  she  reviewed  her  daughter's  conduct, 
her  mind,  ever  alert  to  the  interests  of  the  erring 
Lance,  misgave  her.  Callista  seemed  hard  enough 
and  cold  enough  for  anything.  Octavia  heard  the 
two  masculine  voices,  questioning,  replying,  argu- 
ing. She  had  put  herself  beyond  understanding 
the  words  they  uttered,  but  presently  feminine 
curiosity  overcame  her,  and  she  was  stealing  back 
to  listen,  when,  through  the  small  window,  she 
saw  Flenton  Hands  get  heavily  to  his  feet.  A 
moment  he  stood  so,  looking  down,  then,  her  head 
close  to  the  sash,  she  heard  him  ask, 

"  I've  got  yo'  permission,  have  I,  Mr.  Gentry,  to 
go  over  thar  and  name  this  all  out  to  Callisty?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  you've  got  my  permission,  and 
I  don't  forbid  ye,"  Ajax  Gentry  said  haughtily. 
"  I  hold  with  lettin'  every  feller  go  to  destruction 
his  own  way.  He  gits  thar  sooner;  and  that's 
whar  most  of  'em  ort  to  be." 

"  Well,  you  don't  say  I  shain't  go  and  speak  to 
her  of  it,"  Hands  persisted.  "I'm  a  honest  man, 
a  perfesser  and  a  church  member,  and  what  I  do 
is  did  open  and  above-boards.  I  thank  ye  kindly 
for  yo'  good  word." 

Old  Ajax,  who  certainly  had  given  no  good  word, 
merely  grunted  as  Hands  made  his  way  swiftly 
across  the  grass  to  the  cabin  where  the  loom  stood. 


Flenton  Hands  3°5 

"  Don't  werry,  Octavy,"  he  said,  not  unkindly, 
as  his  daughter-in-law's  distressed  face  showed  at 
the  window.  "Shorely  Sis  has  got  the  sense  to 
settle  him." 

Callista,  hard  at  work,  was  aware  of  her  visitor 
by  the  darkening  of  the  doorway.  She  looked  up 
and  frowned  slightly,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of 
noting  his  coming.  The  baby  sat  on  the  floor, 
playing  gravely  with  a  feather  which  stuck  first 
to  one  plump  little  finger  end  and  then  another. 
Had  Flenton  Hands  possessed  tact,  he  might  have 
made  an  oblique  opening  toward  the  mother 
through  the  child.  As  it  was,  he  began  in  a 
choked,  husky  voice, 

"Callisty,  honey—" 

He  broke  off.  The  concluding  word  was  said 
so  low  that  Callista  could  pretend  not  to  have 
heard  it,  and  she  did  so. 

"Callisty,"  he  repeated,  coming  in  and  leaning 
tremulously  forward  on  the  loom,  "  I  want  to  have 
speech  with  you." 

"  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  your  speakin', 
am  I?"  inquired  Callista.  "But  I'm  right  busy 
now,  Flenton.  It  isn't  likely  that  you  could  have 
anything  important  to  say  to  me,  and  I  reckon 
it'll  keep." 

"You  know  mighty  well  and  good  that  what  I 
have  to  say  to  you  is  plenty  important,"  Flenton 
told  her,  shaken  out  of  his  usual  half-cringing 
caution.  "Callisty,  yo'  husband  has  quit  ye; 


306  Lance  Cleaverage 

he's  down  in  the  Settlement,  and  is  givin'  it  out  to 
each  and  every  that  he's  aimin'  to  sell  to  the 
Company  and  go  to  Texas." 

He  would  have  continued,  but  a  glance  at  her  face 
showed  him  such  white  rage  that  he  was  startled. 

"I  didn't  aim  to  make  you  mad,"  he  pleaded. 
"  I  know  you  quit  Lance  first  —  good  for  nothin' 
as  he  was,  he'd  never  have  given  you  up,  I  reckon, 
till  you  shook  him." 

Callista  set  a  hand  against  her  bosom  as  though 
she  forcibly  stilled  some  emotion  that  forbade 
speech.  Finally  she  managed  to  say  with  tolerable 
composure, 

"Flenton  Hands,  you've  named  a  name  to  me 
that  I  won't  hear  from  anybody's  lips  if  I  can  help 
it  —  least  of  all  from  yours.  If  that's  the  speech 
you  came  to  have  with  me,  you  better  go  —  you 
cain't  take  yourself  off  too  soon." 

"No,"  Hands  clung  to  his  point,  "no,  Callisty, 
that  ain't  all  I  come  to  say.  I  want  to  speak  for 
myse'f." 

He  studied  her  covertly.  He  did  not  dare  to 
mention  the  divorce  which  he  had  assured  her 
grandfather  he  was  ready  and  anxious  to  secure 
for  her. 

"  I "  —  he  was  breathing  short,  and  he  moistened 
his  lips  before  he  could  go  on  — "  I  just  wanted  to 
say  to  you,  Callisty,  that  thar's  them  that  loves 
you,  and  respects  and  admires  you,  and  thinks  the 
sun  rises  and  sets  in  you." 


Flenton  Hands  3°7 

Lance's  wife  looked  down  with  bitten  lip.  Her 
full  glance  studied  the  cooing  child  playing  on  the 
floor  near  her  feet. 

"  Well  —  and  if  that's  all  you  came  to  say,  you 
might  have  been  in  better  business,"  she  told  him 
coldly.  "I  reckon  I've  got  a  few  friends." 

She  chose  to  ignore  the  attitude  of  lover  which 
he  had  assumed.  After  a  moment's  silence  Flenton 
began  desperately, 

"  Yo'  grandfather  named  to  me  that  I  ought  not 
to  visit  at  the  house  like  I  do  without  my  intentions 
towards  and  concerning  you  was  made  clear," 
twisting  Grandfather  Gentry's  words  to  a  signifi- 
cance that  would  certainly  have  amazed  the 
original  speaker.  "  I  told  him  that  I  was  a  honest 
man  and  a  member  in  good  standin'  of  Brush  Arbor 
church,  and  that  what  I  wanted  of  you  was  — ' 

He  caught  the  eye  of  the  girl  at  the  loom  and 
broke  off.  The  red  was  rising  in  her  pale  face  till 
she  looked  like  the  Callista  of  old. 

"  Don't  you  never  say  it ! "  she  choked.  "  Don't 
you  come  here  to  me,  a  wedded  wife,  doin'  for  my 
child,  and  talk  like  I  was  a  girl  lookin'  for  a  hus- 
band. I've  got  one  man.  Him  and  me  will  settle 
our  affairs  without  help  from  you.  I  may  not  let 
you  nor  nobody  else,  name  him  to  me  —  but  I'll 
take  no  such  words  as  this  from  your  mouth." 

"  An'  you  won't  let  me  come  about  any  more  — 
you  won't  speak  to  me?"  demanded  Hands,  in 
alarm. 


Lance  Cleaverage 

"  What  is  it  to  me  where  you  come  or  where  you 
stay  ? "  Callista  flung  back  scornfully.  "  This  ain't 
house  of  mine  —  I'm  not  the  one  to  bid  you  go 
or  come." 

And  with  this  very  unsatisfactory  permission, 
Flenton  was  obliged  to  content  himself.  There- 
after he  went  to  the  Gentry's  as  often  as  he  dared. 
He  sent  Little  Liza  when  he  was  afraid  to  go ;  and 
if  Callista  put  her  foot  off  the  place,  she  found 
herself  dogged  and  followed  by  her  unwelcome 
suitor. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"THE  SPEECH  OF  PEOPLE." 

AND  now  gossip  began  to  weave  a  confusing 
veil  of  myth  around  the  deserted  man,  such 
as  time  and  idle  conjecture  spread  about  a  deserted 
house.  One  day,  visitors  to  the  cabin  in  the  Gap 
would  find  the  place  apparently  forsaken  and 
untenanted ;  the  next,  Lance  would  be  seen  plod- 
ding with  bent  shoulders  at  the  plow,  making  ready 
a  patch  to  plant  with  turf  oats  for  winter  pasture, 
lifting  his  head  to  answer  nobody's  hail,  barely 
returning  a  greeting.  It  was  evident  that  in  his 
times  of  activity  he  worked  with  a  fury  of  energy 
at  the  carrying  forward  of  the  farm  labor,  the 
improvements  he  and  Callista  had  planned  in  the 
home.  Plainly  these  were  dropped  as  suddenly 
as  entered  upon  when  his  mood  veered,  and  he 
shut  himself  up  in  the  cabin,  or  was  out  with  his 
rifle  on  the  distant  peaks  of  White  Oak,  in  the 
ravines  of  Possum  Mountain,  or  beating  the  breaks 
of  West  Caney.  He  made  more  than  one  trip  to 
the  Settlement,  too,  where  he  was  known  to  be 
trying  to  get  Dan  Bayliss  to  buy  back  Cindy  for 
him.  Always  a  neat  creature,  careful  of  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  a  certain  indefinite  forlornness 
came  to  show  itself  upon  him  now  —  a  touch  of 

309 


310  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  wild.  He  was  thin,  often  unshaven,  and  his 
hair  straggled  long  on  his  coat  collar.  But  the 
soul  that  looked  out  of  Lance's  eyes,  a  bayed, 
tormented  thing,  was  yet  unsubdued.  No  doubt 
he  was  aghast  at  the  whole  situation ;  but  willing 
to  abase  himself  or  cry  "enough,"  he  was  not. 

Ola  Derf,  true  to  her  word,  left  the  Turkey 
Tracks  the  day  after  her  unsuccessful  attempt  at 
an  interview  with  Lance.  When  it  came  to  be 
said  that  he  had  sold  to  the  coal  company,  not 
only  the  mineral  rights  of  his  land  but  the  acres 
themselves,  and  that  he  was  going  West,  rumor  of 
course  coupled  the  two  names  in  that  prospective 
hegira.  There  were  those  who  would  fain  have 
brought  this  word  to  Callista,  hoping  thereby  to 
have  something  to  report;  but  the  blue  fire  of 
Callista's  eye,  the  cutting  edge  of  her  quiet  voice, 
the  carriage  of  that  fair  head  of  hers,  warned  such 
in  time,  and  they  came  away  without  having 
opened  the  subject. 

It  was  Preacher  Drumright  who  officially  took 
the  matter  up,  and  set  out,  as  he  himself  stated, 
"to  have  the  rights  of  it."  His  advent  at  the 
Gentry  place  greatly  fluttered  Octavia,  who  knew 
well  what  to  expect,  and  had  grown  to  dread 
her  daughter's  inflexible  temper.  The  inevitable 
chickens  were  chased  and  caught;  Callista  set  to 
work  preparing  the  usual  preacher's  dinner. 
Ajax  was  fence  mending  in  a  far  field;  Octavia 
entertained  the  guest  in  the  open  porch,  since, 


"The  Speech  of  People"  311 

though  it  was  now  mid-October,  the  day  was 
sunny,  and  your  mountaineer  cares  little  for  chill 
in  the  air.  Drumright's  sharp  old  eyes  followed 
the  graceful  figure  in  its  journeyings  from  table 
to  hearth-stone;  they  stared  thoughtfully  at  the 
bright,  bent  head,  relieved  against  the  darkness  of 
the  cavernous  black  chimney.  Finally  he  spoke 
out,  cutting  across  some  mild  commonplace  of 
Octavia's. 

"Callisty,  come  here,"  he  ordered  brusquely.. 

The  young  woman  put  a  last  shovelful  of  coals 
back  on  the  lid  of  the  Dutch  oven  whose  browning 
contents  she  had  just  been  inspecting,  and  then 
came  composedly  out,  wiping  her  hands  on  her 
apron,  to  stand  before  the  preacher  quite  as  she 
used  when  a  little  girl. 

" I  hear  you've  quit  yo'  husband  —  is  that  so?" 
Drumright  demanded  baldly. 

Callista  kept  her  profile  to  him  and  looked 
absently  away  toward  the  distant  round  of  yellow 
Old  Bald,  just  visible  against  an  unclouded  sky. 
The  color  never  varied  on  the  fair  cheek,  and  the 
breath  which  stirred  her  blue  cotton  bodice  was 
light  and  even.  When  she  did  not  reply,  the  old 
man  ruffled  a  bit,  and  prompted  her. 

"I  ax  you,  is  it  true?" 

She  drew  up  her  shoulders  in  the  very  faintest 
possible  shrug,  as  of  one  who  releases  a  subject 
scarce  worth  consideration. 

"You  said  you'd  heard,"  she  returned  indiffer- 


312  Lance  Cleaverage 

ently.  "I  reckon  you  can  follow  your  ruthers 
about  believing." 

Drumright's  long,  rugged  face  crimsoned  with 
rising  rage.  His  lean,  knotted  hands  twitched 
as  he  started  forward  in  his  seat.  He  could  have 
slapped  the  delicate,  unmoved,  disdainful  face 
before  him. 

"To  yo'  preacher,  that's  nothin'  less  than  a 
insult,"  he  stated,  looking  from  one  woman  to  the 
other. 

"Well,  Sis  won't  let  nobody  name  this  to  her," 
Octavia  broke  in  hurriedly.  "An'  I  ort  to  have 
warned  you  — 

"  Warned  me!"  snorted  the  preacher.  " Callisty 
won't  let  this  and  that  be  named!  Well,  if  she 
was  my  gal,  she'd  git  some  things  named  to  her 
good  and  plenty." 

Callista  bent  to  pick  up,  from  the  porch  floor, 
an  acorn  that  had  fallen  with  a  sharp  rap  from 
the  great  oak  over  their  heads;  she  tossed  it 
lightly  out  into  the  grass,  then  she  made  as  though 
to  return  to  her  cooking. 

"Hold  on!"  Drumright  admonished  her.  "I 
ain't  through  with  you  yet.  This  here  mammy 
o'  yourn  sp'iled  you  till  them  that  ort  to  give  you 
good  advice  is  scared  to  come  within  reach.  But 
I  ain't  scared.  I've  got  a  word  to  say.  This  man 
Cleaverage  has  got  property  —  and  a  right  smart. 
Hit's  been  told  all  around  that  he's  sold  out  to 
the  coal  company  and  is  goin'  West  with  —  well, 


"The  Speech  of  People"  313 

they  say  he's  goin'  West.  Now,  havin'  a  livin' 
wife  and  a  infant  child,  he  cain't  make  no  good 
deed  without  you  sign ;  and  what  I  want  to  know  is, 
has  he  axed  you  to  sign  sech?  Ef  he  has,  I  hope 
you  had  the  sense  to  refuse.  Ef  he  comes  to  you 
with  any  sech,  I  want  you  to  send  for  me  to  deal 
with  him  —  you  hear?  Send  for  me." 

The  rasping  voice  paused.  Drumright  was  by 
no  means  through  with  his  harangue,  but  he 
stopped  a  moment  to  arrange  his  ideas.  He 
dwelt  with  genuine  comfort  on  the  thought  of 
being  called  in  to  have  it  out  once  for  all  with 
Lance  Cleaverage.  Then  Callista's  voice  sounded, 
clear  and  quiet. 

"Mr.  Drumright,"  she  said,  "if  you're  never 
sent  for  till  I  do  the  sending,  you'll  stay  away 
from  this  house  the  rest  of  yo'  days.  I'm  a 
servant  here,  a-workin'  for  my  livin'  and  the 
livin'  of  my  child.  Them  that  my  grandfather 
and  my  mother  bids  to  this  house,  I  cook  for  and 
wait  on;  but  speak  to  you  again  I  never  will. 
Mammy,  the  dinner's  ready;  if  you  don't  mind 
putting  it  on  the  table,  I'll  go  out  and  see  is  the 
baby  waked  up." 

With  this  she  stepped  lightly  down  and  walked 
across  to  her  own  cabin. 

Drumright  turned  furiously  upon  Octavia.  She, 
at  least,  was  a  member  of  his  church,  and  bound 
to  take  his  tongue-lashings  meekly.  What  he 
found  to  say  was  not  new  to  her,  and  she  accepted 


3*4  Lance  Cleaverage 

it  with  tears  of  humiliation;  but  when  he  wound 
up  with  declaring  that  she  had  brought  all  this 
about  by  giving  her  daughter  to  an  abandoned 
character,  even  she  plucked  up  spirit  to  reply. 

"You  may  be  adzactly  right  in  all  you  say," 
she  told  the  harsh,  meddlesome  old  man;  "but 
I've  got  the  first  thing  to  see  about  Lance  Cleaver- 
age  that  I  couldn't  forgive.  What  him  and  Sis 
fell  out  about  I  don't  know,  and  she  won't  tell  me ; 
but  as  to  blamin'  it  all  on  Lance,  that  I'll  never 
do." 

Then  she  dished  up  and  set  before  her  irate 
guest  a  dinner  which  might  have  soothed  a  more 
perverse  temper.  Ajax  Gentry  came  in  from  his 
fence  mending,  and,  with  the  advent  of  the  man, 
Drumright's  tone  and  manner  softened.  He  made 
no  further  reference  to  Callista's  personal  affairs, 
nor  to  the  castigation  she  ought  to  receive.  The 
two  old  men  sat  eating  and  talking  —  the  slow 
grave  talk  of  the  mountaineer  —  about  crops  and 
elections  and  religion.  Callista  did  not  come 
back  from  the  little  cabin,  whence  presently  the 
sound  of  her  loom  made  itself  heard.  At  this 
point  Drumright  ventured  a  guarded  suggestion 
to  his  host,  in  the  matter  of  her  affairs.  He  was 
met  with  a  civil  but  comprehensive  negative. 

"No,  sir,  I  shall  not  make  nor  meddle,"  Grand- 
father Gentry  told  the  preacher,  as  he  stood 
finally  at  the  roadside,  looking  up  at  that  worthy 
mounted  on  his  mule  for  departure.  "Callista  is 


"The  Speech  of  People"  3*5 

my  only  grandchild,  and  I've  always  thought  a 
heap  of  her.  She  is  welcome  in  my  house.  If 
she  had  done  worse,  I  should  still  be  willing  to 
roof  her ;  but  I  reckon  it's  best  to  tell  you  here  and 
now,  Mr.  Drumright,  that  I  have  no  quarrel  with 
Lance  Cleaverage,  and  no  cause  to  meddle  in  his 
affairs.  I  take  him  to  be  a  good  deal  like  I  was 
at  his  age  —  sort  o'  uneasy  when  folks  come 
pesterin'  around  asking  questions  —  and  I  don't 
choose  to  be  one  of  them  that  goes  to  him  that-a- 
way." 

The  season  wore  on  toward  winter.  There  was 
frost,  and  after  it  a  time  of  exquisite,  mist-haunted 
Indian  summer,  the  clean,  wooded  Cumberland 
highlands  swimming  in  a  dream  of  purple  haze, 
that  sense  of  waiting  and  listening  brooding  over 
all.  Then  again  the  days  were  cold  enough  to 
make  the  fire  welcome,  even  at  noon,  and  Callista 
piled  the  hearth  in  her  outside  cabin  room  and  set 
the  baby  to  play  before  it.  She  had  run  down  to 
the  chip  pile  for  an  apronful  of  trash  to  build  the 
blaze  higher  (the  vigorous,  capable  young  creature 
made  light  work,  these  days,  of  getting  her  own 
fuel) ,  when  she  was  aware  of  two  people  mounted 
on  one  mule  stopping  at  the  gate.  She  paused  a 
moment,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  while 
Rilly  Trigg  slid  down  and  Buck  Fuson  swung 
himself  leisurely  to  earth. 

Above  the  irregular  line  of  the  brown-gold  trees, 
beginning  to  be  dingy  with  the  late  storms,  the 


3*6  Lance  Cleaverage 

sky  was  high,  cloudless,  purple-blue.  The  sweet, 
keen  air  lifted  Callista' s  bright  hair  and  tossed  it 
about  her  face. 

"Howdy,  Callisty.  Me  and  Buck  jest  stopped 
apast  to  say  good-bye,"  Rilly  announced,  joining 
her  beside  the  chopping  block,  and  bending  to  fill 
her  own  hands  with  the  great  hickory  chips. 

"  And  where  was  you  and  Buck  a-goin'  ? "  smiled 
Callista,  after  she  had  greeted  the  young  fellow, 
who  tied  his  mule  and  came  following  the  girl 
over  to  her. 

"Buck  and  me  was  wedded  this  morning." 
Rilly  made  her  announcement  with  a  mantling 
color,  as  they  all  turned  in  at  the  cabin  door. 
"We're  goin'  down  to  Hepzibah  for  a  spell. 
Looks  like  a  man  cain't  git  nothin'  to  do  here, 
and  Buck's  found  work  in  the  Settlement." 

Callista  looked  at  them  with  a  steady  smile. 

"  I  hope  you-all  will  be  mighty  happy,"  she  said 
in  a  low  tone. 

Rilly,  suddenly  overtaken  by  the  embarrass- 
ment of  making  such  an  announcement  to  Callista 
in  her  present  situation,  sat  down  on  the  floor 
beside  the  baby  and  began  to  hug  him  ecstatically. 

"Ain't  he  the  sweetest  thing?"  she  cried  over 
and  over  again.  "He  ain't  forgot  me.  He  ain't 
a  bit  afraid  of  me.  Last  time  him  an'  me  was 
together  I  had  to  make  up  with  him  mighty  careful. 
I  reckon  he  sees  more  strangers  and  more  comin' 
and  goin'  over  here." 


"The  Speech  of  People"          317 

Callista's  beautiful  mouth  set  itself  in  firm  lines 
as  she  took  her  chair  beside  the  hearth,  motioning 
Buck  to  one  opposite.  Rilly  glanced  nervously 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  again  looked  em- 
barrassed. 

"  Derf ,  he's  opened  his  store  down  in  the  Settle- 
ment," she  returned  hastily  to  her  own  affairs,  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something,  "and  he  offered 
Buck  a  job  with  him ;  but  I  jest  cain't  stand  that 
old  Flent  Hands,  and  so  I  told  Buck.'' 

"  What  has  Flenton  got  to  do  with  it?"  inquired 
Callista  in  a  perfunctory  tone. 

"Why,  him  an'  Derf's  went  partners,"  Buck 
explained.  "Didn't  you  know  about  it?  Flent's 
to  run  the  town  store,  an'  Derf  this'n  up  here." 

Rumor  in  the  Turkey  Tracks  now  declared  with 
a  fair  degree  of  boldness  that  Flenton  Hands  was 
getting,  or  was  to  get,  for  Callista  a  divorce  from 
her  husband,  and  that  then  they  would  be  married 
and  live  in  the  Settlement.  Lance's  wife  looked 
her  visitor  very  coolly  in  the  face  as  she  answered, 

"I  certainly  know  nothing  of  Flenton  Hands's 
comings  or  goings.  The  man  made  himself  mighty 
unpleasant  here.  Hit's  not  my  house,  and  not  for 
me  to  say  who  shall  be  bidden  into  it ;  but  I  did 
finally  ax  Gran'pappy  would  he  speak  to  Flent 
Hands  and  tell  him  please  not  to  visit  us  any  more. 
I  hate  to  do  an  old  neighbor  that-a-way,"  she 
added,  "but  looks  like  there  are  some  things  that 
cain't  be  passed  over." 


Lance  Cleaverage 

A  swift  glance  of  satisfaction  flashed  between 
the  newly  wedded  pair.  Rilly  rose  and  went 
timidly  to  Callista,  putting  a  hesitant  arm  about 
the  other's  neck. 

"We  come  a-past  yo'  house  this  morning, 
Callisty,  honey,"  she  whispered,  her  cheek  against 
the  older  girl's.  "  I  —  Buck  an'  me  wanted  to  see 
him ;  and  we  hoped  —  we  thort  — 

Not  unkindly  Callista  pushed  the  clinging  arm 
away  and  looked  straight  into  Rilly's  eyes,  over- 
flowing with  tears. 

"  You're  not  thinkin'  what  you  say,  Rilly,"  she 
told  the  girl,  almost  sharply.  "You  never  come 
a-past  no  house  of  mine.  You  are  in  the  only 
house  I've  got  on  earth  right  now,  and  this  belongs 
to  Grandfather  Gentry.  I  stay  here  on  sufferance, 
and  work  for  what  I  get.  I've  got  no  home  but 
this." 

"Oh,  Callisty  —  you're  so  hard-hearted!"  Rilly 
protested.  "We  come  a-past,  and  he  was  thar, 
an'  he  never  hid  from  us,  like  he  does  from  most, 
nor  shet  the  do'  in  our  faces.  He  let  us  set  on  the 
porch  a  spell.  Oh,  honey,  he  looks  mighty  porely. 
Ain't  you  never  scared  about  what  he  might  do? 
Heap  o'  folks  tells  tales  about  him  now;  but  he 
came  out  jest  as  kind  —  jest  like  he  used  to  be  - 
Oh,  Callisty!" 

Callista's  face  was  very  pale ;  it  looked  pinched ; 
she  sat  staring  straight  ahead  of  her,  with  the  air 
of  one  who  endures  the  babble  of  a  forward  child. 


"The  Speech  of  People"          319 

"Rilly,"  she  said  finally,  when  the  other  had 
made  an  end,  "you've  named  something  that  I 
don't  allow  anybody  to  name  in  my  hearing.  If 
you  and  me  are  going  to  be  friends,  you've  said 
your  last  word  about  it  to  me." 

"Well,  —  I  have,  then,"  returned  the  visitor 
half  angrily.  She  searched  in  a  small  bag  she 
carried  hung  on  her  arm  and  brought  out  some- 
thing. "I've  said  my  last  word,  then,"  she 
repeated.  "  But  —  I  brung  you  this." 

"This"  proved  to  be  a  late  rose  marked  by 
frost,  its  crimson  petals  smitten  almost  to  black 
at  their  edges.  Callista  knew  where  it  had  grown, 
she  recalled  the  day  that  she  and  her  bridegroom 
had  planted  it.  The  root  came  from  Father 
Cleaverage's  place;  Lance  had  brought  it  to  her; 
and  he  had  helped  her  well,  and  watered  the  little 
bush  afterward. 

Rilly  cast  the  blossom  toward  her  with  a  gesture 
half  despair,  half  reproach.  It  lodged  in  her 
clasped  hands  a  moment,  and  she  looked  down  at 
it  there.  Memory  of  that  October  day,  the  tossing 
wind  that  blew  her  hair  in  her  eyes,  the  familiar 
little  details  of  the  dooryard,  Lance  with  his 
mattock  and  spade,  the  laughter  and  simple  speech, 
the  bits  of  foolish  jest  and  words  of  tenderness  — 
these  took  her  by  the  throat  and  made  her  dumb. 
She  knew  that  now  the  cabin  which  fronted  that 
dooryard  was  desolate.  She  could  not  refuse  to 
see  Lance's  solitary  figure  moving  from  house  to 


320  Lance  Cleaverage 

fence  to  greet  these  two.  Somehow  she  guessed 
that  it  was  he  who  had  plucked  the  rose  and  given 
it  to  the  girl  —  that  would  be  like  Lance. 

The  blossom  slipped  from  her  fingers  and 
dropped  to  the  floor.  Young  Ajax,  cruising  about 
seeking  loot,  discovered  it  with  a  crow  of  rapture, 
seized  upon  it  and  began,  baby  fashion,  to  pull  it 
to  pieces. 

The  three  watched  with  fascinated  eyes  as  the 
fat  little  fingers  rent  away  crimson  petal  after 
petal,  till  all  the  floor  was  strewn  with  their  half 
withered  brightness. 

"Well,"  said  Rilly,  discouraged,  getting  to  her 
feet,  "I  reckon  you  an'  me  may  as  well  be  goin', 
Buck." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

BUCK   FUSON'S    IDEA. 

DOWN  in  Hepzibah,  Flenton  Hands  and  Derf 
had  rented  a  store  building  close  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Court  House.  Furtive  grins 
were  exchanged  among  those  who  knew;  since 
it  was  expected  that,  the  Derf  store  on  Little 
Turkey  Track  Mountain  being  a  depot  for  wild- 
cat whiskey,  the  Derf-Hands  store  in  the  Settle- 
ment would  be  a  station  along  the  line  of  that 
underground  railway  always  necessary  for  the 
distribution  of  the  illicit  product.  At  last 
Flenton  Hands  seemed  about  to  give  some  shape 
to  that  cloud  of  detraction  which,  with  certain 
of  his  neighbors,  had  always  hung  over  his  name. 
As  the  separation  between  Lance  Cleaverage 
and  his  wife  continued,  and  appeared  likely  to 
be  permanent;  as  Hands  felt  himself  in  so  far 
justified  in  his  hopes  concerning  Callista,  his  ter- 
ror of  the  man  whose  word  was  out  against  him 
increased  and  became  fairly  morbid.  This  it 
was  which  drove  him  to  Hepzibah,  where  the 
strong  arm  of  the  law  could  reach,  where  there 
were  such  things  as  peace  warrants,  and  where 
fortunately,  just  at  present,  Lott  Beason,  the 
newly  elected  sheriff,  was  his  distant  cousin  and 

321 


322  Lance  Cleaverage 

an  old  business  partner,  who  still  owed  him 
money. 

To  Sheriff  Beason,  then,  Hands  went,  with 
the  statement  that  he  would  like  to  be  a  con- 
stable, so  that,  as  an  officer  of  the  law,  any 
attack  Lance  made  on  him  might  appear  at  its 
gravest. 

"Constable,"  debated  Beason.  "That  ain't 
so  everlastin'  easy ;  but  I  can  swear  you  in  as  one 
of  my  deputies,  and  a  deputy  sheriff  can  pack  a 
gun  —  you  git  you  a  good  pistol,  Flent,  and  don't 
be  ketched  without  it.  Yes,  you  might  as  well 
have  a  peace  warrant  out  against  the  feller,  too. 
I  tell  you,  down  in  the  Settlement  here  we  don't 
put  up  with  such.  You  stay  pretty  close  to 
town  for  a  spell,  Flent.  Hit's  the  safest  place." 

Hands  got  out  his  peace  warrant,  he  armed 
himself  with  a  pistol,  as  is  right  and  proper  for 
an  officer  of  the  law.  He  followed  Beason's 
final  suggestion  as  well,  and  stayed  pretty  close 
to  town.  Lance  Cleaverage  was  far  away  on 
Little  Turkey  Track  Mountain.  The  sense  of 
security  which  Hands  drew  from  all  these  pre- 
cautions loosened  his  tongue.  Wincing  at 
remembrance  of  his  former  terror,  he  boasted  of 
the  favor  with  which  Cleaverage 's  wife  regarded 
him;  he  let  pass  uncontradicted  the  statement 
that  he  had  broken  up  that  family,  and  added 
the  information  that  he  was  going  to  get  a  divorce 
for  Callista  and  marry  her. 


Buck  Fuson's  Idea  323 

Buck  Fuson,  working  in  the  woolen  mill,  had 
rented  a  tiny  shack  where  the  newly  married 
pair  were  keeping  house.  One  evening  when 
he  came  home,  Orilla  met  him  with  a  rather 
startling  story.  She  had  been  down  to  Derf's 
store  to  buy  molasses  and  bacon  for  supper. 

"They  was  all  in  the  back  end  of  the  room 
behind  the  boxes  and  the  piles  of  things,  Buck," 
she  told  her  husband.  "  The  old  Injun,  he  waited 
on  me ;  and  when  he  went  back  with  my  bucket, 
Injun-like,  he  never  give  them  the  word  as  to  who 
nor  what  was  a-listenin',  and  they  just  kept  on 
talkin'  re-die 'lous.  Flenton  was  a-braggin', 
an'  after  what  Callista's  said  to  me  and  you,  I 
knowed  good  an'  well  that  every  word  he  spoke 
was  a  lie.  Emmet  Pro  vine  bantered  him  to 
sell  him  that  Cindy  filly  that  Lance  used  to 
own,  an'  give  to  Callista.  An'  Flent  said  no,  he 
wouldn't  sell  her  for  nothin' ;  he  was  a-goin'  to 
keep  the  filly  an'  git  the  woman,  too.  He  let 
on  like  he  was  shore  goin'  to  marry  Callista  - 
talked  like  they  wasn't  sech  a  man  as  Lance 
Cleaverage  in  the  world.  Then  Derf  peeked 
around  and  ketched  sight  of  me,  and  they  all 
hushed.  But  I  heard  what  I  heard." 

Buck  ate  awhile  in  silence  and  with  a  somewhat 
troubled  countenance. 

"I  reckon  I've  got  to  send  word  to  Lance," 
he  said  finally,  looking  up.  "  Lance  Cleaverage 
never  was  one  of  the  loud-talkin',  quarrelin' 


324  Lance  Cleaverage 

kind;  but  he  sure  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be 
scared;  and  I'm  sartain  he  would  take  it  kindly 
to  be  told  of  this." 

"An'  yit  I  don't  know,"  Rilly  debated  timidly 
from  across  the  table.  "  Looks  like  you  men  are 
always  killin'  each  other  up  for  nothin'  at  all. 
'Course,  ef  I  thought  Flent  would  be  the  one  to 
git  hurt  —  but  like  as  not  it  would  be  Lance. 
No,  honey,  I  wouldn't  send  him  no  word." 

"You  don't  need  to,"  smiled  Buck  rather 
grimly.  "I  have  my  doubts  whether  he'd  take 
the  word  from  a  gal  o'  yo'  size;  but  I'm  sure 
a-goin'  to  lay  for  him  or  Sylvane  and  tell  'em 
what  I  know.  I'd  thank  anybody  to  do  the 
same  by  me." 

During  the  rest  of  the  meal  Buck  seemed  to 
be  in  deep  thought;  Rilly  watched  him  anxiously. 

It  was  the  next  Saturday  afternoon  that 
Lance  was  down  doing  some  trading.  About 
dusk  Fuson,  coming  home  from  his  work,  found 
him  on  the  street  corner  preparing  to  get  his 
wagon  from  the  public  yard  and  make  a  night 
ride  up  the  mountain.  In  these  days  Lance  made 
most  of  his  journeyings  after  dark,  shunning  the 
faces  of  his  neighbors. 

"I  was  sorter watchin'  for  ye,  Lance,"  said  his 
friend.  "I  wanted  to  talk  to  ye  —  to  tell  ye 
somethin'." 

Lance  shot  a  swift  glance  at  Fuson ;  but  he  an- 
swered promptly,  and  with  seeming  indifference : 


Buck  Fuson's  Idea  325 

"All  right,  Buck;  come  on  down  to  Dowst's 
with  me."  . 

They  walked  side  by  side  down  to  the  tiny, 
dingy,  deserted  office  of  the  wagon  yard.  Here 
a  small  stove,  crammed  with  the  soft  coal  of 
the  region  till  the  molten,  smoky  stuff  dripped 
from  the  sagging  corners  of  the  gaping  door  to 
its  firebox,  made  the  room  so  intolerably  warm 
that  the  window  was  left  open.  On  a  high  desk 
rudely  constructed  of  plank,  an  ill-tended  kero- 
sene lamp  flared  and  generated  evil  odors.  From 
nails  upon  the  wall  hung  harness  and  whips,  horse 
blankets,  and  one  or  two  articles  of  male  wearing- 
apparel.  A  dog-eared  calendar  over  the  desk 
gave  the  day  of  the  month  to  the  blacksmith 
when  he  was  forced  at  long  last  to  make  out  bills. 

Alone  together,  safe  from  interruptions,  the 
two  young  fellows  faced  each  other  for  a  moment 
in  constrained  silence.  Then,  hastily,  awk- 
wardly, halting  and  hesitating  for  a  word  now 
and  again,  Buck  gave  the  information  which  he 
thought  was  due. 

"Now,  that's  what  was  said,"  he  finally  made 
an  end  when  he  had  repeated  all  that  Rilly 
heard,  and  all  that  he  himself  had  since  gathered 
from  various  sources,  of  Flenton  Hands's  boasting 
concerning  Callista  Cleaverage. 

Something  agonized  in  Lance's  gaze,  some- 
thing which  looked  out  desperately  interrogating, 
brought  Buck  to  himself  with  a  gasp. 


326  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Rilly  and  me  knowed  every  word  was  lies," 
he  hastened  to  add.  "We  come  a-past  the 
Gentry  place  to  see  Callisty  as  we  was  on  our 
way  down  here  —  you  remember,  Lance,  that 
day  we  was  at  yo'  house.  Flenton  Hands  was 
named  betwixt  us,  and  Callisty  she  said  that  she 
didn't  know  nothing  about  the  man  nor  his 
doings.  She  said  she'd  went  to  her  gran 'pappy 
and  axed  him  to  warn  Flent  off  the  place,  becaze 
she  wouldn't  have  the  sort  of  talk  be  held." 

Noting  the  sudden  relief  which  showed  in 
Lance's  countenance,  Fuson  added,  half  doubt- 
fully, 

"  'Course  you  might  pay  no  attention  to  it, 
seein'  it's  all  lies." 

The  quiet  Lance  flashed  a  sword-like  look  at 
him  that  was  a  revelation. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "The  thing  has  got  to  be 
stopped.  The  only  question  is,  how  soon  and 
how  best  can  I  get  at  Flenton  Hands  and  stop  it  ?" 

"Lance,"  began  the  other  with  some  hesita- 
tion, "  I'm  a-livin'  right  here  in  the  Settlement, 
and  aim  so  to  do  from  this  on.  If  you  can  git 
through  without  bringin'  my  name  in,  I'd  be 
obliged  to  you.  If  you  need  me,  I'm  ready. 
If  you  don't  need  me,  it'll  save  hard  feelin's 
with  the  man  that  keeps  the  store  I  trade  at, 
and  with  all  his  kin  and  folio  win'." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Lance  briefly.  "I  won't 
give  any  names  —  there's  no  need  to." 


Buck  Fuson's  Idea  327 

"Well,  I  been  a  studyin'  on  this  thing  right 
smart,  and  I  had  sorter  worked  it  out  in  my  mind 
for  you  to  hear  the  talk  yo'self -- just  happen 
in  and  hear  Mr.  Hands.  Don't  you  reckon 
that'd  be  the  best  way?"  suggested  Fuson. 

"Yes  —  good  as  any,"  assented  Lance.  "I'm 
not  lookin'  for  much  trouble  with  Flent  Hands. 
Here,  Jimmy,"  he  called  to  the  sleepy  boy  who 
came  yawning  in,  "  you  take  my  black  horse  out 
of  the  wagon,  and  put  a  saddle  on  him  —  you've 
got  one  here,  haven't  you?  Put  a  saddle  and  a 
riding  bridle  on  him,  and  tie  him  in  the  vacant 
lot  across  from  Derf  &  Hands 's  store  about  half- 
past  eight  o'clock.  I'll  bring  the  saddle  back 
when  I'm  through  with  it." 

"All  right,"  Jimmy  roused  himself  to  assure 
Lance.  "I'll  have  Sate  thar  on  time.  Pap's 
got  a  saddle  an'  bridle  o'  yo'  brother  Taylor's 
here,  Fuson.  Lance  can  take  'em  back." 

As  the  two  friends  came  out  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, Buck  said  quietly, 

"Derf,  he's  got  it  in  for  you,  too." 

Lance  nodded. 

"  Derf  ain't  never  forgive  me  because  he  robbed 
me  of  money,"  he  added,  well  aware  that  his 
indifference  to  Ola  had  given  the  father  perhaps 
greater  offence. 

They  walked  for  a  little  time  in  silence ;  then 
Fuson  said  a  little  wistfully, 

"  I  'lowed  I  ort  to  tell  you." 


328  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Hit  was  what  a  friend  should  do,"  Lance 
agreed  with  him,  putting  out  a  hand. 

Presently  the  other  spoke  again,  out  of  the 
dark. 

"  I  wish't  thar  was  time  to  git  word  to  Sylvane 
and  your  father,"  he  hesitated.  "Looks  like 
we've  got  too  few  on  our  side." 

"Huh-uh,  Buck,"  came  back  Lance's  quiet, 
positive  tones.  "This  thing  is  between  me  and 
Flent.  There  it'll  stay,  and  there  we'll  settle 
it.  I'm  not  saying  that  I  don't  think  Pappy  and 
Sylvane  would  stand  by  me.  They  would. 
My  father  is  one  of  the  best  men  that  God  ever 
made,  and  he's  a  religious  man;  but  I  know  how 
he'd  feel  about  such  as  this  —  I  don't  need  to 
go  ask  him.  The  most  I  hate  in  it  is  that  it's 
bound  to  bring  sorrow  to  him,  whichever  way 
it  turns.  He's  mighty  tender  hearted." 

Fuson  debated  a  moment,  but  finally  forbore 
to  mention  having  sent  word  to  Sylvane,  and 
being  in  hourly  expectation  of  the  lad's  coming. 
They  went  to  Fuson's  home  for  a  belated  supper. 
Rilly  found  them  preoccupied  and  unusually 
silent.  With  big,  frightened  eyes  she  waited 
on  them,  serving  her  best,  noting  that  they  paid 
little  attention  to  anything  saving  the  strong 
cups  of  coffee  provided.  The  young  host  glanced 
from  time  to  time  uneasily  through  the  window, 
and  when  the  meal  was  over  got  up,  and,  telling 
his  wife  that  they  were  going  down  town  for  a 


Buck  Fuson's  Idea  329 

spell,  followed  his  guest  out  into  the  dark.  Rilly 
ran  after  them  to  the  door  of  the  little  shanty, 
and  stood  breathing  unevenly  and  staring  in  the 
direction  of  their  retreating  footsteps. 

"  I  hope  to  the  Lord  they  don't  nothing  awful 
happen,"  she  muttered  over  and  over  with 
chattering  teeth.  "  I  wonder  will  Buck  be 
keerful.  I  wish't  they  was  something  I  could 
do.  I  wish't  I  could  go  along.  Oh,  women  do 
shore  have  a  hard  time  in  this  world!"  and  she 
retired,  shivering,  to  her  bright  little  kitchen, 
where  the  lamp  flared  and  the  disordered  table 
mutely  suggested  her  clearing  and  washing  the 
dishes. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

SILENCED. 

UP  the  street  tramped  the  two  young  fellows, 
Lance  silent,  pulling  his  hat  down  over  his 
face,  Fuson  whistling  in  an  absent,  tuneless 
fashion.  When  they  came  to  the  store,  Buck 
paused  and  gave  the  instructions. 

"I'll  go  in.  You  walk  a-past  two  or  three 
times,  and  when  you  see  me  standin'  with  my 
back  to  you  and  my  hands  behind  me,  that'll 
mean  that  Flenton's  thar  and  the  talk  started. 
Hit'll  be  yo'  time  to  come  in." 

Lance  nodded  without  a  word.  He  passed 
the  lighted  doorway.  Beyond  it  was  a  butcher- 
shop  —  for  days  after  he  could  remember  the 
odor  of  raw  meat  from  the  place,  the  sight  of  the 
carcasses  hung  up  in  the  frosty  winter  air.  At 
the  corner  he  turned  and  walked  back.  There 
was  no  sign  of  Fuson  as  he  glanced  swiftly  into 
the  store.  On  the  other  side  of  the  way  was  the 
vacant  lot  where  he  had  instructed  the  boy  from 
the  wagon-yard  to  tie  Satan.  Lance  took  the 
precaution  to  go  down  in  the  shadows  and  see 
if  the  black  horse  had  arrived.  He  found  his 
mount,  the  bridle  rein  looped  over  a  bit  of 
scrubby  bush.  He  examined  the  saddle  and 

330 


Silenced  33* 

equipments,  and  found  all  as  it  should  be.  When 
he  came  back  to  the  store  door  and  once  more 
glanced  in,  he  descried  Fuson's  figure,  standing, 
hands  behind  the  back,  in  the  aisle  between  the 
counters. 

Quietly,  neither  hiding  nor  displaying  him- 
self, Lance  entered  and  made  his  way  down  the 
long  room  toward  the  far  lighted  end.  After 
dark,  trade  in  the  main  portion  of  the  store  was 
practically  dead,  and  only  one  smoky  lamp  on 
the  counter  illuminated  the  entrance.  In  the 
rear,  half-a-dozen  men  were  grouped  around  a 
big,  rust-red  barrel  stove,  talking.  The  whole 
place  back  there  reeked  with  the  odors  of  whiskey, 
of  the  fiery,  colorless  applejack  that  comes  down 
from  the  mountains,  kerosene  and  molasses, 
with  a  softening  blend  from  the  calico,  jeans  and 
unbleached  cottons  heaped  on  the  counters, 
narrowing  in  the  approach  to  this  retreat.  He 
paused  beside  a  tall  pile  of  outing  flannel,  putting 
up  one  hand  against  the  rounded  edges  of  their 
bolts.  Fuson,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  was 
aware  of  the  figure  in  the  shadow,  and  at  once 
spoke  in  a  slightly  raised  voice. 

"Flent,  I  hear  you've  sold  yo'  filly." 

"Well,  then,  you  hearn  a  lie,"  returned  Flenton 
Hands's  tones  drawlingly.  "I  hain't  sold  that 
filly,  and  I'm  not  aimin'  to.  That  thar  nag 
belongs  to  my  wife." 

He  laughed  uproariously  at  his  own  jest,  and 


332  Lance  Cleaverage 

some  of  the  other  men  laughed  too.  Greene 
Stribling,  down  from  Big  Turkey  Track  to  do  a 
bit  of  trading,  had  sold  a  shoat.  Instead  of  getting 
the  coffee  and  calico  and  long  sweetening  it 
should  have  purchased,  and  carrying  them,  with 
the  remaining  money,  up  to  his 'toil-worn  mother 
and  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  he  had  bought 
a  jug  of  the  Derf  &  Hands  wildcat  whiskey ;  and 
having  borrowed  the  small  tin  cup  from  beside  the 
water  bucket,  he  was  standing  treat  to  the  crowd. 

"Fust  time  I  ever  heared  you  had  an  old 
woman,"  Derf  said,  accepting  the  cup  from  the 
assiduous  Stribling. 

It  was  evident,  now  that  Lance  had  a  view  of 
the  faces,  that  this  was  a  Flenton  Hands  nobody 
on  Turkey  Track  Mountain  ever  met.  He  had, 
as  it  were,  come  out  into  the  open.  'Certainly 
he  was  not  drunk;  it  would  have  taken  a  very 
considerable  amount  of  stimulant  to  intoxicate 
that  heavy,  dense  spirit  and  mentality;  but 
there  was  color  in  his  cheek,  a  glint  of  courage 
in  his  pale  eye,  a  warming  and  freeing  of  the 
whole  personality,  that  bore  witness  to  what  he 
had  been  drinking. 

"I  reckon  you  mean  the  wife  that  you're 
a-goin'  to  have,"  put  in  Fuson.  "Hit's  a  good 
thing  to  git  the  pesky  old  stags  like  you  married 
off.  They  have  the  name  of  breakin'  up  families. 
Bein'  a  settled  man  myself  in  these  days,  I  ain't 
got  no  use  for  such." 


Silenced  333 

Hands  turned  on  him  eagerly. 

"Well,  I  have  shore  broke  up  one  family," 
he  declared.  "I  am  a  church  member  and  a 
man  that  keeps  the  law ;  but  that  thar  is  a  thing 
I'm  not  ashamed  of." 

"Yet  I  reckon  you  ain't  a-brag'gin'  about  it," 
suggested  Buck. 

"I  don't  know  as  I'm  braggin'  about  it,  but  I 
shore  ain't  denyin'  it,"  maintained  Hands.  "  I'm 
ready  to  tell  any  person  that  will  listen  at  me 
that  me  an'  Callista  Gentry  aims  — 

"I'm  a-listenin',"  said  a  quiet  voice  from  the 
shadows,  and  Lance  stepped  into  the  circle, 
clear-eyed,  alert,  but  without  any  air  of  having 
come  to  quarrel. 

For  a  moment  Flenton  quailed.  Then  he 
looked  about  him.  This  was  not  the  wild  Tur- 
key Tracks.  He  was  down  in  the  Settlement. 
There  was  law  and  order  here.  He  had  a  peace 
warrant  out  against  this  man  Cleaverage.  He 
glanced  across  at  his  cousin,  the  sheriff.  Season 
would  back  him.  Why,  he  was  a  deputy  sheriff 
himself,  and  the  feeling  of  the  gun  in  his  pocket 
reassured  him.  Lance  stood  at  ease,  composed, 
but  definitely  changed  from  the  light-footed 
Lance  who  had  come  swinging  buoyantly  down 
over  the  little  hill  that  Sunday  morning  two 
years  ago.  Something  told  Hands  that  the 
other  was  unarmed. 

"  Now  see  here,  Cleaverage,"  he  began,  wagging 


334  Lance  Cleaverage 

his  head  and  backing  off  a  little,  "  I  don't  want 
to  hurt  your  feelin's.  I  may  have  said  to  friends, 
and  it  may  have  got  round  to  you,  that  the  part 
you  had  did  by  —  that  the  part  you  had  did  was 
not  to  your  credit.  She  - 

He  hesitated.  There  was  silence,  and  no  one 
stirred.  He  went  on. 

"She's  a-workin'  for  her  livin',  and  a-workin' 
mighty  hard.  She's  a-supportin'  the  child. 
Divo'ces  can  be  had  for  such  as  that  —  you 
know  they  can." 

"That  isn't  what  I  heard  you  say  —  what 
you  said  you  would  tell  anyone  that  'd  listen," 
argued  Lance,  his  eyes  fixed  unwaveringly  upon 
the  other.  "You've  got  to  take  back  all  that 
other  talk,  here  before  them  you  said  it  to. 
Hit  's  a  pack  o'  lies.  I'm  goin'  to  make  you 
take  it  back,  and  beg  pardon  for  it  on  your  knees, 
Flenton  Hands  —  on  your  knees,  do  you  hear 
me?" 

The  circle  of  men  widened,  each  retiring  in- 
conspicuously, with  apprehensive  glance  toward 
a  clear  exit  for  himself.  The  two  opponents 
were  left  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  confronted, 
their  faces  glared  upon  by  lamp-shine  and  the 
light  from  the  open  door  of  the  stove ;  drawn  by 
passionate  hate,  and  with  a  creeping  terror 
much  more  dangerous  beginning  to  show  itself 
in  the  countenance  of  the  older  man. 

"You   wasn't   never   fitten   for  her,"   Hands 


Silenced  335 

cried  out  finally,  his  voice  rising  almost  to  fal- 
setto with  excitement.  "She's  glad  to  be  shut 
of  you."  Then  like  a  fellow  making  a  desperate 
leap,  half  in  fright,  half  in  bravado,  "When  her 
and  me  is  wedded  - 

He  broke  off,  staring  with  open  mouth.  Lance 
had  scarcely  moved  at  all,  yet  the  crouching 
posture  of  his  figure  had  something  deadly  in 
it.  Flenton's  clumsy  right  hand  went  back 
toward  the  pocket  where  that  gun  lay.  With 
the  motion,  Lance  left  the  floor  like  a  missile, 
springing  at  his  adversary  and  pinning  his  arms 
down  to  his  sides.  It  was  done  in  silence. 

"Hold  on  thar!"  cried  Derf  in  alarm.  "You- 
all  boys  better  not  git  to  fightin'  in  my  store. 
Sheriff  —  hey,  you,  Beason!  —  Why  don't  you 
arrest  that  feller?" 

The  two  wrestled  mutely  in  that  constricted 
place,  Hands  struggling  to  get  his  pistol  out, 
Lance  merely  restraining  him.  Beason  came 
forward,  watching  his  chance  and  grabbing  for 
Cleaverage.  He  finally  caught  Lance's  arm,  and 
his  jerk  tore  loose  the  young  fellow's  grip  on 
Flenton  Hands.  Swiftly  Lance  turned,  and 
with  a  swinging  blow  freed  himself,  sending  the 
unprepared  sheriff  to  the  floor.  As  he  flung  his 
head  up  again,  he  had  sight  of  Hands  with  a 
half-drawn  weapon.  Flenton  backed  away  and 
stumbled  against  the  stove.  The  great  iron  barrel 
trembled — toppled — heaved,  crashing  over,  send- 


336  Lance  Cleaverage 

ing  forth  an  outgush  of  incandescent  coals,  its 
pipe  coming  down  with  a  mighty,  hollow  rattle 
and  a  profuse  peppering  of  soot.  The  strangling 
smoke  was  everywhere. 

"Name  o'  God,  boys!"  yelled  Derf,  climbing 
to  the  counter,  to  get  at  a  bunch  of  great  shovels 
that  hung  on  the  wall  above;  "you'll  set  this 
place  afire !  Flent,  you  fool,  we  ain't  got  a  dollar 
of  insurance!" 

At  the  moment  Lance  closed  with  his  man, 
locked  him  in  a  grip  like  a  vise,  went  down  with 
him,  and  rolled  among  the  glowing  cinders, 
conscious  of  a  sudden  burning  pang  along  the 
left  arm  which  was  under  him. 

Fuson,  watching  Hands  strain  and  writhe  to 
draw  the  pistol,  and  Lance's  effort  to  prevent  him, 
saw  that  it  was  going  against  his  friend.  He 
thrust  the  haft  of  a  knife  into  Lance's  right  hand. 

The  men  were  jumping  about  ineffectually, 
coughing  and  choking  with  the  sulphurous  fumes, 
divided  between  the  fascination  of  that  struggle 
on  the  floor,  and  the  half-hearted  effort  to  up- 
end the  stove  by  means  of  a  piece  of  plank.  The 
corner  of  a  cracker  box  began  to  blaze. 

"Lord  God  A'mighty!"  Derf  was  protesting, 
threshing  at  the  burning  goods,  "  We'll  be  plumb 
ruined !  "  Fuson  ran  for  the  water  bucket.  Some 
fool  dashed  a  cup  of  whiskey  on  the  coals,  and  in 
the  ghastly  light  of  the  blue  blaze,  Lance  Cleaver- 
age,  staggering  up,  saw  a  dead  man  at  his  feet. 


"  He  broke  off,  staring  with  open  mouth." 


Silenced  337 

He  was  not  conscious  that  he  had  struck  at 
all  with  the  knife,  yet  there  it  was  in  his  hand, 
red.  The  sleeve  was  half  burned  off  his  left 
arm,  and  still  smoking.  It  was  dark  away  from 
the  fire.  Season,  stunned,  was  getting  to  his 
feet  and  hallooing, 

"Hold  Cleaverage!  Somebody  hold  Cleaver- 
age!  He's  killed  Flent." 

And  then  Lance  felt  the  shoving  of  a  palm 
against  his  shoulder.  Buck  was  pushing  him 
quietly  away,  down  between  the  lines  of  piled 
commodities.  They  were  running  together  toward 
Satan.  Back  in  the  room  they  could  hear  the 
sheriff  yelling  for  lights. 

"I  thought  I  might  just  as  well  knock  them 
lamps  over  for  good  measure,"  Fuson  muttered 
as  they  ran.  "Here's  your  horse  —  my  pistol's 
in  that  holster,  Lance.  Air  ye  hurt?" 

"No,"  Lance  returned.  "Nothin'  but  my 
arm.  I  reckon  I  burnt  it  a  little.  It's  only  the 
left  one.  Thank  you,  Buck.  You've  been  a 
true  friend  to  me  this  night." 

And  he  was  away,  down  the  bit  of  lamplit 
street  that  ran  so  quickly  into  country  road,  past 
outlying  cabins  already  dark,  till  he  struck  the 
first  rise  of  Turkey  Track  and  slacked  rein.  A 
moment  he  turned,  looking  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  lights. 

Upon  the  instant  the  Court  House  bell  back 
there  broke  out  in  loud,  frightened  clamor. 


338  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Clang!  Clang!  Clang!"  Somebody  was 
pulling  wildly  on  the  rope  to  call  out  the  little 
volunteer  fire  company.  He  heard  cries,  shouts, 
and  then  the  long  wavering  halloo  that  shakes 
the  heart  of  the  village  dweller. 

"Fire!     Fire!     Fire!" 

Derf's  store  must  be  blazing.  He  wondered 
dully  if  they  had  dragged  Flenton's  body  away 
from  the  flames.  Hearkening,  he  suffered  Satan 
to  breathe  a  bit  on  the  rise  that  would  take  him 
to  the  great  boulder  where  the  roads  branched, 
one  going  up  Little  Turkey  Track,  the  other 
leading  aside  direct  to  the  Big  Turkey  Track 
neighborhood. 

Suddenly  he  stiffened  in  his  saddle,  cut  short 
a  groan  wrenched  from  him  by  his  injury,  and 
listened  strainingly.  Above  the  now  diminishing 
noise  from  the  village,  he  distinguished  the  sound 
of  hoofs  that  galloped  hard,  growing  louder  with 
each  moment,  —  the  feet  of  one  who  pursued  him. 
Looping  the  bridle  rein  over  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle  horn,  he  got  at  the  pistol  Buck  had  pro- 
vided, and  thereafter  rode  warily  but  as  rapidly  as 
he  dared,  looking  back  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  shape  or  shapes  which  might  be  following. 

He  had  just  rounded  the  turn  at  the  fork  of 
the  way,  when  somebody  burst  into  it  close  at 
hand,  coming  through  the  short  cut  by  Caw- 
thorne's  Gulch,  and  he  thought  he  heard  his 
name  called. 


Silenced  339 

To-  be  taken  now,  to  be  dragged  back  to  the 
jail,  and,  if  not  set  upon  and  lynched  by  the 
Beason-Hands  following,  to  rot  there  till  such 
time  as  they  chose  to  try  him,  and  possibly  pay 
for  his  act  of  wild  justice  with  his  own  life,  this 
was  a  vista  intolerable  to  Lance  Cleaverage. 
Raising  the  weapon  he  fired  at  his  pursuer. 

"Oh,  don't!"  wailed  the  unseen;  and  the 
next  moment  Sylvane  leaped  from  the  mule  he 
rode,  ran  forward  and  caught  at  Satan's  mane, 
panting,  "Lance  —  Lance!  I  was  a-goin'  to 
you  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  struck  down  thar  'bout 
the  time  you  must  have  left.  I  come  Dry  Valley 
way.  Is  it  —  have  you  - 

At  the  sound  of  Sylvane's  voice,  the  heritage 
of  Cain  came  home  to  Lance  Cleaverage.  A 
great  upwelling  black  horror  of  himself  flowed 
in  on  the  fugitive.  To  what  had  he  sunk!  A 
murderer  fleeing  for  his  life,  in  his  panic  terror 
of  pursuit  menacing  his  own  brother  who  came 
to  help  and  succor! 

"  Oh,  Buddy  —  Buddy  —  Buddy !  "  he  cried, 
doubling  forward  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle, 
clutching  Sylvane's  shoulder,  and  closing  his 
eyes  to  shut  out  the  face  of  the  dead  man  which 
swam  before  them  in  that  quivering  blue  light. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

PHE  dark  hours  of  that  January  night  saw  the 
1  two  brothers  riding  hard  up  into  the  moun  - 
tains  toward  that  tiny  cleft  in  the  peaks  above 
East  Caney  where  Lance  now  remembered  the 
cave  that  he  had  once  said  should  shelter  him  in 
case  he  ever  killed  a  man.  Sylvane  had  much 
of  Lance's  pride  and  courage,  with  little  of  his 
dash  and  perversity.  Had  the  peril  been  his 
own,  one  might  have  guessed  that  he  would  meet 
it  with  the  gentle  stoicism  old  Kimbro  showed. 
But  that  Buddy  should  be  in  peril,  fleeing  for 
his  life!  The  boy's  universe  reeled  around  him, 
confusion  reigned  where  he  should  have  been 
efficient  and  orderly;  and  when  they  stopped 
at  the  cabin  in  the  Gap  for  supplies,  what  with  the 
agony  of  Lance's  burn  and  the  disarray  of  his 
brother's  whole  mentality,  they  made  sad  work 
of  it.  Something  to  eat,  something  to  keep  warm 
with,  something  to  dress  the  hurt  —  these  were 
the  things  the  boy  tried  to  remember,  and  forgot, 
and  could  not  find,  when  he  fancied  the  gallop- 
ing hoofs  of  pursuers  with  every  gust  that  shook 
the  big  trees  in  the  dooryard. 

He  got  for  the  dressing  of  the  arm  only  a  roll 
340 


The  Flight  341 

of  new  cloth,  rough  and  unsuitable ;  while  a  few 
extra  garments,  a  blanket,  meat,  meal,  salt,  a 
cooking  vessel  and  some  white  beans  made  up 
the  rest  of  his  packet.  He  came  out  at  the  last 
carrying  Lance's  banjo  and  put  it  on  top  of  the 
supplies. 

"  'Way  up  yon  they'll  be  nobody  to  hear  you, 
and  I  reckon  it  might  take  off  the  edge  of  the 
lonesomeness,"  he  half  apologized  when  Lance 
looked  curiously  at  it  in  the  light  of  the  lantern 
his  brother  held. 

The  owner  of  the  banjo  made  no  movement 
to  take  it  and  swing  it  upon  his  back,  neither 
did  he  decline  it;  but  indifferently  Sylvane  was 
allowed  to  bring  the  once  cherished  possession 
along. 

Through  the  cold,  naked  woods,  they  pushed 
to  East  Caney.  The  creek  was  up.  It  was  three 
o'clock,  nearly  four  hours  before  the  wintry 
dawn  might  be  expected ;  yet  a  late  moon  had 
risen  sufficiently  to  show  them  the  swollen  tor- 
rent. These  mountain  streams,  fed  by  the 
snows  of  the  higher  ranges,  clear,  cold,  boulder 
checked  and  fretted,  sometimes  rise  in  a  night  to 
a  fury  of  destruction,  scouring  away  whole 
areas  from  one  bank  or  another.  To-night  Caney, 
great  with  the  snows  from  both  of  the  twin  peaks 
above  it  which  a  January  thaw  had  sent  down, 
made  traveling  in  its  bed  a  matter  of  life  and 
death.  Yet  the  boys  must  attempt  it.  Once 


342  Lance  Cleaverage 

behind  that  barrier  of  roaring  water,  Lance  would 
be  safe.  True,  mountain  streams  often  subside 
as  abruptly  as  they  rise,  so  that  no  one  could  tell 
how  long  this  particular  safety  would  last. 

"I  reckon  we  can  git  through  better 'n  the  nags," 
Sylvane  said  dubiously,  as  they  divided  the  pack 
between  them,  and  started  out  on  the  desperate 
enterprise  of  leaping  from  boulder  to  boulder 
through  the  swirling  waters.  They  lost  one 
bundle  in  the  struggle,  and  they  came  through 
fearfully  exhausted,  Lance  with  that  left  arm 
one  surface  of  exquisite  torture,  his  countenance 
pinched  and  his  jaw  set,  his  eyes  burning  in  the 
white  face  that  his  brother  could  dimly  discern. 
But  they  did  get  through,  and  came  drenched, 
dripping,  shuddering  with  cold,  into  the  little 
valley. 

The  last  time  Lance  had  seen  the  place  it  was 
brimmed  with  the  wine  of  summer,  green,  full 
of  elusive  forest  scents,  bird-haunted,  drowsing 
under  July  skies,  and  the  most  beautiful  creatures 
it  held  in  its  sweet  shelter  were  Callista  and  her 
child.  Now  his  desolate  gaze  searched  its  dim 
obscurity  for  the  black  loom  of  the  rock  house 
that  had  given  its  roof  to  their  happy  gipsying. 
The  blanket  and  clothing  had  gone  down  roaring 
Caney;  but  the  banjo,  carried  carefully  on  Syl- 
vane's  shoulders,  whined  against  the  bare  twigs 
of  the  Judas  tree  he  was  passing  under,  whim- 
pered something  in  its  twanging  undertone  that 


The  Flight  343 

demanded  awfully  of  Lance,  "How  many  miles 
-  how  many  years?  " 

Without  waiting  for  his  brother,  and  the  lan> 
tern  which  the  boy  was  relighting,  he  dashed 
down  the  slope,  past  the  stark,  empty  rock 
house  —  swerving  a  little  like  a  man  going  wide 
of  an  open  grave  —  and  gained  the  steep  path- 
way to  the  cave,  where  Sylvane,  panting  after, 
overtook  him. 

"I'm  obliged  to  get  a  fire  for  you,  and  see  can 
I  tie  up  that  there  arm,"  the  boy  declared  piti- 
fully. "  Lance,  I'm  that  sorry  I  lost  your  blanket 
and  clothes  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do!" 
And  his  voice  trembled. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  about  me," 
Lance  said  wearily.  "  I'd  like  for  you  to  be  dry 
and  warm  before  you  start  back  —  but  there's 
no  time.  You  got  to  get  away  from  here  as 
quick  as  you  can.  If  we  leave  the  horses  tied 
down  there,  and  anybody  sees  'em  —  you've  got 
to  get  away  quick,  Buddy." 

"  Where'd  I  better  take  Sate?"  asked  Sylvane, 
as  he  had  asked  before. 

"I've  been  studyin'  about  that,"  Lance  told 
him.  "They're  bound  to  know  I'm  in  the 
mountains.  We  can't  get  rid  of  the  nag,  and  if 
he  goes  to  our  house  it  will  seem  no  more  than 
natural.  Best  just  take  him  home  and  put  him 
in  the  stable." 

Sylvane  had  gathered  pitch  pine  for  light  and 


344  Lance  Cleaverage 

heat.  He  made  a  roaring  fire  and  then  attempted 
an  awkward  dressing  of  the  injured  arm.  The 
rough  cloths  hurt.  There  was  no  liniment,  not 
even  flour  to  lay  on  the  burn.  Lance  locked  his 
teeth  in  agony  and  bore  it  till  time  seemed  to 
press. 

"Go  on,  Buddy,"  he  urged.  "When  you  can 
get  to  me  with  anything,  do  it.  When  you  can't 
—  I'll  make  out,  somehow." 

"  The  good  God  knows  I  hate  to  leave  you  like 
this,"  the  lad  repeated,  as  he  made  his  final 
preparations  for  departure.  "Pappy  or  me  will 
be  here  inside  of  two  days  and  bring  you  news, 
and  something  to  keep  warm  with,  and  something 
to  eat.  Lance,  please  lemme  leave  ye  my  coat— 

"  No,  no,  Sylvane,  you'd  nigh  about  freeze 
without  it  a-ridin'  home.  It's  not  cold  in  the 
cave  here.  You  go  on  now,  Buddy  —  that's  a 
good  boy."  And  blindly  the  younger  lad  turned 
and  crept  down  the  bank. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ROXY    GRIEVER. 

IT  was  nearly  noon  when  Sylvane,  reaching 
home  by  an  obscure,  roundabout  trail, 
half  perished  from  the  cold,  scouting  the  place 
long  and  fearfully  before  he  dared  enter,  found 
that  Sheriff  Beason  with  a  posse  had  been  at  his 
father's  house,  searched  it,  and  gone.  At  the 
door  his  sister  Roxy  met  him,  clutching  his  arm, 
staring  over  his  shoulder  with  fear-dilated  eyes, 
and  whispering  huskily, 

"Whar  is  he?     Whar's   Lance?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  pulling  the  drenched 
hat  from  his  curls,  and  moving  toward  the  hearth- 
stone where  his  father  sat  bowed  over. 

"He's  safe,"  the  words  came  finally  in  a  half- 
reluctant  tone.  New  lines  of  resolution  and 
manhood's  bitter  knowledge  had  been  graving 
themselves  on  Sylvane 's  face  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours.  "  I  helped  him  to  whar  they  cain't 
find  him  nor  take  him.  Let  that  be  enough." 

"  No  —  but  it  ain't  enough,"  his  sister  rebelled. 
"  Here's  Beason  has  swore  him  in  a  posse  of  six, 
and  he's  out  a-rakin'  the  mountings  after  Lance. 
Six  men."  Roxy's  face  was  gray. 

"They've  started,  have  they?  "  said  Sylvane  in 

345 


346  Lance  Cleaverage 

the  voice  of  exhaustion.  "  Well,  what  you  don't 
know  they  cain't  find  out  from  you,  Sis'  Roxy. 
And  I  best  not  tell  you  whar  Lance  is  hid." 

"Sylvane!"  The  woman's  tone  was  sharp 
with  suffering,  rather  than  anger.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  tell  on  my  own  brother?  Tham  men 
might  cut  me  into  inch  pieces  and  get  nothin' 
from  me.  You  don't  know  me,  boy.  I'd 
think  little  of  puttin'  one  of  'em  out  of  the  way! 
Thar  was  women  in  the  Bible  done  sech  —  and 
was  praised  for  hit.  I  want  to  know  whar  Lance 
is  at,"  she  choked,  "and  whether  he's  hurt,  and 
what  he's  got  for  to  comfort  him  —  pore  soul!" 

"Hush,  daughter,"  counselled  Kimbro  gently. 
"Sylvanus  is  right.  People  do  sometimes  betray 
what  they  aim  to  cover  up.  If  I  can  guess  whar 
my  son  is  —  and  I  reckon  I  could  —  that's  one 
thing;  but  for  any  of  us  to  be  told,  ain't  safe." 

Silently,  almost  sullenly,  Roxy  hunted  out  dry 
clothes  for  Sylvane,  the  boy  sitting  near  his 
father,  telling  Kimbro  in  a  few  brief  sentences 
Lance's  version  of  the  night's  happenings,  the 
old  man  nodding  his  head  without  a  word  of 
comment.  She  set  food  on  the  table  and  Sylvane 
drew  up  to  eat. 

"I  want  to  go  whar  my  Unc'  Lance  is  at," 
whispered  Mary  Ann  Martha,  suddenly  pushing 
a  tow  head  up  under  Sylvane 's  arm  and  nearly 
causing  him  to  overturn  his  coffee.  "  I'm  a-goin' 
to  he'p  him  fight." 


Roxy  Griever  347 

Sylvane  lifted  the  child  into  his  lap,  and  began 
to  feed  her  with  bits  from  his  plate. 

"Its  Unc'  Lance  is  all  right,  Pretty,"  he  said 
absently.  "  Unc'  Sylvane  and  Gran'pappy'll 
look  after  him.  That's  men's  work.  It  help 
its  Mammy  to  keep  the  house,  and  soon  Unc' 
Lance  is  goin'  to  be  back  and  play  the  banjo 
for  it." 

All  day,  that  strange,  brief,  silent  Sunday  in 
February,  Roxy  strove  to  have  the  secret  of 
Lance's  hiding  place  from  her  younger  brother. 
Again  and  again  she  turned  from  what  she  was 
doing  to  demand  it  of  him;  more  than  once  she 
quit  abruptly  her  labors  about  the  house,  to  go 
and  hunt  him  up,  to  ask  him  sometimes  half- 
angrily,  sometimes  cajolingly,  pleadingly,  almost 
with  tears.  The  boy  withstood  the  fire  of  her 
importunities  as  best  he  could.  He  answered 
her  in  as  few  words  as  might  be.  Without  harsh- 
ness, but  only  doggedly,  he  still  responded  in  the 
negative,  and  always  with  mildness  and  a  sort 
of  regret. 

As  it  drew  toward  dusk,  Roxy's  face  began  to 
harden  into  grim  lines,  and  she  went  about  her 
preparations  for  supper  with  a  gleaming  eye. 
Her  father,  who  had  walked  to  a  far  pasture  to 
salt  cattle,  came  in,  and  sat  with  Mary  Ann 
Martha  on  his  knee  by  the  fireplace.  Roxy 
looked  in  at  the  door.  Mutely,  with  only  a  back- 
ward jerk  of  the  head,  she  called  them  to  their 


348  Lance  Cleaverage 

meal.  As  the  child  was  following,  her  mother 
detained  her  and,  giving  no  explanation,  went 
with  her  into  the  far  room.  A  moment  later 
she  came  to  the  men  sitting  at  the  table. 

"Well,  there's  yo'  supper,"  she  said  resent- 
fully to  Sylvane,  "sence  you  'low  that's  all  I'm 
fitten  to  do.  Ye  can  put  the  things  away  yo'- 
selves,  I  reckon.  I'm  a-goin'  on  a  arrant." 

And  with  the  chubby  Mary  Ann  Martha  bun- 
dled heavily  in  shawls,  silent  as  a  small  mummy, 
and  plainly  under  the  hypnotism  of  impressive 
instructions  from  her  mother,  she  turned  and 
went  from  the  room,  and  they  heard  the  front 
door  close  softly  after  her. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  uneasily,  but 
there  seemed  nothing  to  be  done. 

Outside,  Roxy  stooped  and  spoke  again  to 
the  child.  She  straightened  up  and  peered  long 
about  her,  listening  intently,  then  moved  ob- 
liquely among  the  yard  shrubbery  down  to  the 
gate.  Crossing  the  road  in  the  deep  shade  of 
cedar  trees,  she  struck  direct  for  the  Gentry  place, 
going  by  woods-paths  that  had  so  often  known 
Lance's  feet.  When  the  short,  fat  little  legs  that 
trotted  beside  her  in  silence  grew  weary,  she 
carried  Mary  Ann  Martha  pick-a-back,  and  always 
she  was  whispering  to  her. 

"  We're  Injuns  now,  Ma'y-Ann-Marth'.  Mam- 
my's a  squaw,  and  you'  a  little  papoose,  out 
a-scoutin'  to  see  can  we  find  Unc'  Lance ;  or  head 


Roxy  Griever  349 

off   them   that's   a-aimin'  to   do   him  mischief. 
Don't  it  make  no  noise." 

When,  in  turn,  Roxy  herself  was  too  tired  to 
carry  her  daughter  longer,  she  broke  a  thick  wil- 
low switch  beside  a  spring  branch,  and  encour- 
aged the  little  girl  to  ride  a  stick  horse. 

"  But  remember  we'  Injuns,  honey,"  she 
whispered.  "Injuns  don't  make  no  noise  nor 
let  they'  nags  make  none." 

In  this  wise  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  tim- 
ber and  surveyed  the  opening  where  lay  the  Gentry 
farm.  Here  Roxy  left  the  child,  motionless  as  a 
little  image  in  her  swaddling  of  thick  shawls  — 
stationing  her  in  the  grove  of  young  chestnuts 
from  which  Lance  had  emerged  the  night  he 
came  singing  to  Callista's  window  —  while  she 
scouted  with  infinite  pains  the  entire  circuit 
of  the  clearing.  She  encountered  nobody,  and 
heard  nothing ;  yet  surely  the  house  where  Lance 
Cleaverage's  wife  and  child  were  would  be  subject 
to  espionage.  The  clear  stars  hung  above  the 
bleak  treetops,  and  by  their  dim  light  she  could 
just  make  out  the  various  buildings,  trees  and 
bushes.  Once  more  carrying  Mary  Ann  Martha, 
she  moved  down  to  the  corner  of  a  small  out- 
building. Here  she  gave  her  last  instructions  to 
the  child. 

"Now,  Ma'y-Ann-Marth',  you  go  right  up  that 
line  of  bushes,  on  the  shady  side,  to  yo'  Aunt 
Callisty's  house;  and  don't  you  speak  a  word 


35°  Lance  Cleaverage 

to  anybody  but  her.  You  say  to  her  that 
they's  somebody  —  mind,  honey,  somebody,  don't 
you  name  who  —  that  wants  speech  with  her, 
a-waitin'  out  here  by  the  chicken-house.  Tell  her 
to  slip  down  here  longside  o'  them  same  bushes. 
Can  Mammy's  gal  say  all  that  and  say  it  right?" 
And  she  looked  anxiously  into  Mary  Ann  Martha's 
solemn  little  face. 

The  child  nodded  her  head  vigorously,  and  a 
moment  later  the  shapeless  small  figure  started 
worming  its  way  up  along  the  obscuring  row  of 
bushes.  Finally  she  stopped  on  the  doorstone 
of  that  cabin  where  she  could  hear  the  "  thump- 
a-chug  "  of  Callista's  loom.  She  well  remembered 
that  the  last  time  she  was  over  here  her  Aunt 
Callie  had  entertained  her  in  that  building,  re- 
fusing to  come  out  and  see  her  mother.  Un- 
acquainted with  any  such  ceremonial  as  knocking, 
incapable  of  achieving  the  customary  "hello," 
she  planted  herself  on  the  doorstep  and  remarked 
gruffly, 

"Huh!" 

The  sound  did  not  amount  to  much  as  a  hail 
or  an  alarum,  yet  it  reached  the  ear  of  the  woman 
who  sat  at  the  loom  inside  working,  with  what 
strange  thoughts  as  her  companions  it  were  hard 
to  guess.  Somehow,  it  was  now  known  all  over 
both  Turkey  Track  neighborhoods  that  Lance 
had  killed  his  man  and  fled,  and  that  the  sheriff 
and  posse  were  out  after  him.  The  face  that 


Roxy  Griever  35 J 

bent  over  the  web  of  rag  carpet  was  sharpened 
and  bleached  by  this  knowledge.  The  blue 
eyes  gleamed  bright  with  it.  When  that  curious, 
gruff  little  "huh"  came  to  her  ears,  Callista 
stopped  her  work  like  a  shot  and  stood  long 
hearkening. 

"Hit  was  nothing,"  she  told  herself,  half- 
scornfully.  "I'm  just  scared,  and  listenin'  for 
something." 

She  started  the  treadle  again,  and  the  noise 
of  the  batten  once  more  checked  the  silence  into 
a  rhythmic  measure.  But  the  dogs  had  become 
aware  of  an  intruder.  Rousing  from  their  snug 
quarters  under  the  porch  of  the  big  log  house, 
they  came  baying  across  the  frozen  ground.  At 
their  outburst  of  clamor,  almost  with  one  motion, 
Callista  stopped  the  loom  a  second  time,  turned 
out  her  lamp,  and  was  at  the  door,  drawing  it 
open  with  a  swift,  yet  cautious  movement. 
There  in  the  vague  starlight  was  Mary  Ann 
Martha  backed  up  against  it,  shaking  a  small  and 
inadequate  stick  at  the  approaching  pack.  Swiftly 
Callista  caught  the  little  thing  and  pulled  her 
inside,  closed  the  door  and  dropped  the  bar 
across.  She  stooped  to  the  child  in  the  uncertain 
shine  of  the  fire,  questioning  in  amazement, 

"Why,  Mary  Ann  Martha!  How  on  earth  did 
you  get  here  —  all  alone  —  at  night  this-a-way  ? " 

"Thest  walked,"  returned  the  ambassador 
briefly.  "Aunt  Callie,"  she  embarked  promptly 


35 2  Lance  Cleaverage 

and  sturdily  upon  her  narrative,  "they's  some- 
body down  at  the  corner  of  the  chicken-house 
that  wants  to  have  speech  with  you.  Don't 
you  tell  nobody,  and  you  thest  come  along  o' 
me  and  be  Injuns,  and  don't  make  no  noise,  an' 
slip  down  thar  in  the  shadder  o'  the  bubby 
bushes,  like  I  done,  so  nobody  cain't  see." 

Faithful  to  her  trust,  Mary  Ann  Martha  the 
outrageous,  the  terror  of  Little  Turkey  Track, 
had  delivered  the  entire  message  without  an 
error.  Callista's  mind  was  a  turmoil  of  wild 
surmise.  Who  could  the  "somebody"  waiting 
for  her  out  there  be  —  somebody  who  arranged 
all  these  precautions  with  such  care  and  exact- 
ness? She  gave  but  one  glance  at  the  sleeping 
baby  on  her  bed,  caught  a  heavy  shawl  from  its 
peg,  and,  winding  it  about  her  head  and  shoulders, 
slipped  soundlessly  from  the  door,  holding  Mary 
Ann  Martha's  hand.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
between  them.  When  they  finally  entered  the 
area  darkened  by  the  chicken-house,  Callista 
started  and  her  eyes  widened  mutely  at  the  touch 
of  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Hssh — Callisty !  "  came  Roxy  Griever's  thin, 
scared  tones,  just  above  a  whisper.  "  God  knows 
who  might  be  a-watchin'  and  a-listenin'." 

Callista  faced  about  on  the  older  woman 
staring  with  sharp  inquiry  at  her  in  the  gloom. 
Lance's  wife  found  it  hard  to  guess  what  attitude 
would  be  her  sister-in-law's  now. 


Roxy  Griever  353 

"Callisty,  honey,"  began  the  Griever  woman 
with  a  sort  of  wheedling,  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  ax 
one  thing  of  you.  Hit's  but  natural  that  you 
don't  want  to  hear  mention  of  my  brother's  name 
at  this  time ;  but,  honey,  Pappy  and  Sylvane  has 
got  him  hid  out  somewhars,  and  they  won't  tell 
me  whar.  I  know  in  reason  it's  the  place  you 
and  him  camped  last  summer.  Couldn't  you  lead 
to  it?" 

It  seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  Callista 
would  spring  at  her  sister-in-law;  then  she  said 
in  a  low,  distinct  voice, 

"Well,  Roxy  Griever,  what  sort  of  woman 
are  you,  anyhow?" 

Roxy  studied  the  horrified  countenance  turned 
toward  her  as  well  as  she  could  in  the  half  light. 
She  was  thick-witted,  but  eventually  she  under- 
stood. 

"You  Callisty  Gentry !"  she  ejaculated  with  a 
note  of  passive  savagery.  "Do  you  think  I'd 
lead  the  law  to  Buddy?  What  I  want  to  know 
is  whar  he's  at  and  how  bad  hurt  is  he  ?  Tham 
men  won't  trust  me,  but  I  'lowed  you'd  think 
enough  of  the  father  of  yo'  child  to  give  me  the 
directions  so  I  could  git  to  him.  He's  got  to  have 
good  vittles,  and  someone  to  —  he's  got  to  have 
care.  L —  L"  -  her  mouth  quivered  so  that 
she  could  scarce  go  on  —  "  Lance  ain't  like  some 
folks  —  he  could  jest  die  for  want  of  somebody  to 
tend  on  him.  Don't  I  know?"  A  tremor  shook 


354  Lance  Cleaverage 

her.  "  I  mind  after  Ma  was  gone,  and  Sylvane 
was  a  baby,  an'  Lance  he  cried  bekaze  I  —  oh, 
my  God,  Callisty !  tell  me  whar  he's  at.  I  got  to 
git  to  him.  Don't  be  so  hard-hearted,  honey.  I 
know  hit  seemed  like  Lance  was  a  sinner  —  often- 
times ;  but  the  good  God  Hisself  did  love  sinners 
when  He  was  here  on  earth.  Hit  says  so  in  the 
Book.  He  used  to  git  out  an'  hunt  'em  up.  Oh ! 
oh!  oh!" 

Flinging  an  arm  against  the  trunk  of  a  sapling, 
Roxy  Griever  hid  her  face  upon  it  and  began  to 
weep.  Mary  Ann  Martha  stood  the  sight  and 
sound  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  added  her 
shrill  pipe  of  woe. 

"  Sssh !    Hush ;  both  of  you,  for  mercy's  sake ! ' ' 
besought  Callista.     "Stay  here  just  a  minute, 
Roxy.     I'm  going  back  to  the  house  to  get  - 
well,   I  know  about  what  he'll  need.     Then   I 
have  to  tell  Mother  to  look  after  the  baby." 

"Air  you  goin'  with  me?  Oh,  Callisty,  air 
you  goin'  with  me  now?"  the  widow  quavered. 

"No,"  answered  Callista.  "I'm  going  alone. 
Grandfather  can  let  me  have  a  horse,  or  not,  as 
he's  a  mind.  If  I  can't  get  it  from  him,  I'll  slip 
back  with  you  and  see  what  Sylvane  and  Father 
Cleaverage  can  do  for  me.  I'm  the  one  to  go  and 
look  after  Lance." 

Roxy  and  the  child  waited  in  stoic  silence  while 
Callista  returned  cautiously  to  the  main  house. 
There  was  some  quiet  moving  about  from  one 


Roxy  Griever  355 

building  to  another,  a  stir  over  at  the  log  stable, 
and  in  an  incredibly  brief  time  Callista  came  to 
them  riding  on  her  grandfather's  horse  and  lead- 
ing the  mule,  saddled,  for  the  other  two. 

"  We'll  go  a-past  yo'  house  —  hit's  as  near  as 
any  way,"  was  all  she  said. 

Once  at  the  Cleaverage  place,  Lance's  wife  was 
persuaded  to  accept  Sylvane's  company  for  the 
night  journey,  though  she  peremptorily  —  almost 
impatiently  —  refused  any  addition  to  her  ample 
provision  for  Lance's  comfort.  But  when  the 
two,  all  ready  to  leave,  stood  reconnoitering  in 
the  dark  outside  the  house  to  see  that  the  coast 
was  clear  before  starting,  Roxy  came  trembling 
out  with  a  package  which  she  thrust  into  her 
brother's  hand. 

"Thar,"  she  whispered,  "take  it  to  him.  I 
only  wish't  I'd  'a'  got  it  in  the  frames  and  quilted 
it,  so  that  it  might  have  been  some  use  keepin' 
him  warm." 

"It  —  it  ain't  yo'  gospel  quilt,  Sis'  Roxy,  is 
it?"  Sylvane  inquired,  fumbling  with  doubtful 
inquiry  at  the  roll  in  his  hands. 

"Hit  air,"  returned  his  sister,  the  dignity  of  a 
high  resolve  in  her  brief  response. 

"Why,  daughter,  I  think  I  wouldn't  send 
that,"  Kimbro  deprecated,  drawing  close  in  the 
obscurity.  "Of  course  it's  a  mighty  improvin' 
thing,  but  I  doubt  if  Lance  has  the  opportunities 
to  take  care  of  it  that  a  body  ought  to  have  to 


356  Lance  Cleaverage 

handle  such.  Don't  send  it,  Roxana.  Without 
doubt  it  would  do  him  good,  if  he  was  whar  he 
could  make  use  of  it." 

Roxy  did  not  move  to  receive  the  bundle 
which  her  brother  hesitatingly  offered  back  to 
her. 

"I  know  hit  ain't  much  account,"  she  said 
disconsolately.  "But  I  'lowed  hit  might  make 
him  —  maybe  he'd  laugh  at  it,  and  hit  would 
cheer  him  up  a  leetle.  He  used  to  laugh  power- 
ful at  some  of  'em.  I've  put  in  my  good  shears 
and  that  Turkey-red  calicker,  and  you  tell  him, 
Sylvane,  that  I  want  him  to  cut  me  out  them  little 
davils  he  was  a-talkin'  about,  as  many  of  'em  as 
hit '11  make." 

She  looked  pathetically  from  one  to  the  other. 

"There  ain't  nbthin'  like  gittin'  a  man  person 
that's  in  trouble  intrusted  in  something.  You 
git  him  intrusted  in  cuttin'  out  davils  for  my 
gospel  quilt,  won't  you,  Sylvane,  honey?  —  or 
you  do  it,  Sis'  Callie.  Maybe  hit  might  make 
him  laugh  —  po'  Buddy,  away  off  to  hisself  in 
some  old  hideout,  an'  nary  soul  to  —  to  —  an'  the 
sheriff  chasin'  him  like  he's  a  wolf!  " 

And  Callista,  wiser  than  the  men,  knowing 
that  the  gospel  quilt  would  take  its  own  message 
to  Lance,  stretched  out  a  hand  for  the  package. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IN    HIDING. 

IN  the  skull -shaped  pocket  which  was  the 
inner  chamber  of  the  cave  where  Lance 
lay,  was  neither  light  nor  life.  They  were  the 
bare  ribs  of  the  mountain  that  arched  above 
him  in  that  place,  blackish,  misshapen,  grisly 
in  an  unchanging  chill.  The  continual  dripping 
which  would  have  seemed  music  if  he  had  come 
upon  it  in  a  summer's  noon,  vexed  him  now,  and 
took  on  tones  that  he  wished  to  forget.  Sylvane 
had  provided  him  pitch  pine  to  burn,  because  it 
would  give  more  light,  and  there  was  a  crevice 
which  would  lead  the  smoke  away;  but  he  fret- 
fully told  himself  that  the  resinous  sticks  made 
the  place  smell  like  a  tar  kiln,  and  put  out  his 
fire  rather  than  endure  it. 

Then  in  the  blank  darkness  his  burned  arm 
pained  him  intolerably,  and  presently  he  crept 
forth  into  the  entrance  which  held  the  tiny 
spring  to  steep  the  cloths  in  water,  hoping  to 
assuage  the  hurt. 

Day  filled  this  outer  chamber  with  a  blue  twi- 
light, while  round  the  turn  was  always  black 
obscurity.  Summer  spread  upon  it  each  year  a 
carpet  of  the  finest  ferns ;  now  the  delicate  fronds 

357 


358  Lance  Cleaverage 

lay  shriveled  and  yellow  on  the  inky  mold ;  only  a 
few  tiny  bladderworts  remained  in  the  shelter 
of  the  remote  crevices.  In  spite  of  the  raw  cold 
he  lingered  by  the  little  basin,  his  lifted  eye 
encountering  the  bird's  nest  he  and  Callista  had 
found  there  in  July,  full  then  of  warmth  and 
young  life  and  faithful  love.  It  was  beneath  a 
breadth  never  penetrated  by  the  drip.  He 
studied  the  little  abandoned  home  of  the  phoebe, 
built  there  of  moss  and  leaves  plastered  together 
against  the  rock  with  clay.  He  noted  absently 
how  beside  it  remained  a  portion  from  the  build- 
ing of  the  previous  year ;  and  by  looking  closer  in 
the  half  light  he  made  out  at  least  five  rims  of 
mud,  from  which  the  nests  of  five  preceding 
spring-times  had  crumbled  away. 

Then,  a  caged,  fevered  animal,  he  went  back 
into  the  cave  and  lay  down.  It  was  not  freezing 
cold  there  —  such  a  place  is  much  like  a  cellar, 
warmer  than  the  outside  air  in  winter,  as  it  is 
cooler  in  summer  —  but  the  sensation  of  being 
buried  came  to  wear  upon  the  spirit  of  the  fugi- 
tive, and  he  was  fain  to  creep  nearer  to  glimpses  of 
the  sky,  out  once  more  into  the  vestibule  of  his 
prison.  There  were  bits  of  life  here,  too,  humble, 
and  —  as  his  own  had  come  to  be  —  furtive. 
Plastered  upon  the  limestone  walls  were  the 
homes  of  countless  mud  wasps,  and  the  bell- 
shaped  tents  of  the  rock  spiders.  Around  the 
edges  the  dry  sand  of  its  floor  was  pitted  with  the 


In  Hiding  359 

insect  traps  of  the  ant-lion,  that  creature  at  the 
mouth  of  whose  tiny  burrow  a  prehistoric  Lance 
Cleaverage  —  a  Lance  whose  tousled  head  would 
scarce  have  reached  above  this  man's  knee  —  used 
to  call  long  and  patiently,  "Doodle-bug,  doodle- 
bug, come  up  and  get  some  bread! "  As  though 
recalling  the  childhood  of  another,  he  could  see 
that  valiant  small  man,  masterfully  at  home  in 
his  world,  arrogantly  sure  of  himself,  coming  to 
—  this.  The  rock  vole,  whitish-gray,  rat-like, 
most  distinctive  of  all  the  small,  subterranean 
life  of  the  cave,  peered  out  at  him  and  reminded 
him  where  he  lay,  and  for  what  reason. 

In  suffering,  half  delirious,  those  earlier  hours 
went  by.  He  had  never  contemplated  killing 
Flenton  Hands.  There  was  none  of  the  bully 
in  Lance  Cleaverage,  iron  as  his  nerves  were, 
high  as  his  courage.  He  had  gone  purposely 
unarmed  to  the  quarrel,  regarding  Flenton  con- 
temptuously as  a  coward ;  believing  that  he 
could  make  the  man  publicly  eat  his  words  and 
apologize  for  them.  But  this  open  humiliation 
was  as  far  as  his  intentions  went.  The  poet 
in  him,  the  Lance  of  the  island,  recoiled  des- 
perately from  memory  of  that  dead  face,  the 
eyes  closed,  the  mouth  crookedly  a-gape,  the 
ghastly  light  from  the  flaming  alcohol  wavering 
upon  it. 

So  greatly  was  he  wrought  upon  by  his  situa- 
tion and  his  hurts,  that  by  the  second  night  his 


360  Lance  Cleaverage 

anguish  of  mind  and  body  had  only  sunk  from  that 
first  fierce  clamor  to  a  dull  ache,  which  was  almost 
harder  to  bear,  and  which  kept  sleep  from  him 
quite  as  effectually.  He  scarcely  ate  at  all  of  the 
food  Sylvane  had  left ;  but  drank  thirstily  at  the 
little  spring  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  In 
this  sort  the  time  had  passed,  and  now  Sunday 
and  Sunday  night  were  gone ;  the  morning  of  the 
second  day  was  here. 

The  thought  of  Callista  haunted  him  contin- 
ually. What,  at  such  a  juncture,  would  be  her 
attitude?  One  of  reprehension,  certainly;  but  if 
he  knew  that  mind  of  hers  at  all,  there  would 
be  no  hostility.  Her  pride  would  lead  her  to 
offer,  perhaps,  some  assistance  to  the  man  whose 
name  she  bore.  And  then  suddenly  he  was 
aware  of  a  figure  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and 
Callista's  voice  whispering, 

"  Lance  —  Lance !  " 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  went  gropingly 
forward,   encountering   with    his   right    hand  - 
held  out  as  a  sort  of  shield  to  the  burned  arm  - 
the  bundle  she  carried,  —  the  great  hunter's  quilt, 
wool-padded  and  well-nigh  waterproof,  the  pair 
of  homespun  blankets,  and,  riding  upon  them, 
a  basket  of  cooked  food,  —  while  from  the  other 
hand  swung  a  tin  pail.     She  was  laden  like  a 
strong  man. 

"Who's  with  you  —  who  packed  all  this?  " 
he  made  his  first  inquiry  quite  as  though  he  had 


In  Hiding  361 

expected  her.  There  was  no  word  of  surprise 
or  gratitude. 

"Sylvane,"  she  answered  in  the  same  hushed 
tone.  "I  aimed  to  come  alone,  but  he  wouldn't 
let  me.  We  made  it  since  midnight.  He  left  me 
yon  side  the  creek,  so  as  to  make  haste  home. 
He'll  be  burning  brush  in  the  nigh  field  on  the  big 
road  where  everybody  can  see  him  all  day.  Come 
night,  he'll  be  back  for  me.  What  you  got  it 
all  dark  here  for,  Lance?  I'll  make  ye  a  fire 
that  won't  smoke." 

She  felt  the  earth,  to  be  sure  that  it  was  dry, 
and  then,  with  brusque  kindness,  refusing  all  aid 
from  him,  flung  down  her  burden.  She  carried 
quilt  and  blankets  in  and  spread  a  comfortable 
pallet  of  them. 

"You  go  back  inside  where  it's  not  so  cold," 
she  commanded  briefly.  "  I'll  bring  some  chest- 
nut chunks  and  make  you  a  good  fire.  Go  back, 
Lance." 

He  turned  obediently.  Did  memory  come  to 
either  of  the  chill,  inhospitable  hearth  she  had 
once  refused  to  tend  ?  She  was  swift  and  efficient 
in  her  preparations,  breaking  an  armful  of  dry 
chestnut  limbs  and  twigs  for  a  clean,  smokeless 
fire;  and  when  that  was  sending  forth  its  flood 
of  clear,  hot  radiance,  she  knelt  down  and  dressed 
his  hurt  with  the  liniment  and  soft  old  cloths 
she  had  provided. 

"Brother  Sylvane  said  he'd  be  at  the  creek 


362  Lance  Cleaverage 

about  nine  o'clock  to-night  for  me,"  she  told 
Lance,  as  she  deftly  arranged  a  sling  by  means 
of  a  bandana.  "We  got  to  be  right  careful 
about  comin'  here,  now  that  Caney's  goin'  down. 
Wish't  it  had  stayed  up,  like  Sylvane  said  it 
was  when  you-all  came." 

Lance  stared  at  her  with  the  ghost  of  a  laugh 
in  his  eyes. 

"  You  never  could  have  got  through  it  in  this 
world,  Callista,"  he  said  softly.  "It  was  all 
Buddy  and  me  could  do.  We  was  wet  to  the 
skin  and  nigh  drowned." 

"Oh,  yes  I  could,"  Callista  assured  him  with 
that  new,  womanly  authoritativeness  which 
seemed  now  to  make  him  her  own,  rather  than 
set  him  outside  her  caring,  as  it  had  once  done. 
"I'd  'a'  found  a  way  to  get  through  to  you.  If 
you  have  to  hide  out  long,  I'm  goin'  to  fix  it  so 
that  I  can  be  nearer  you  and  do  for  you.  Does 
that  arm  feel  better  now?  " 

There  was  a  large,  maternal  tenderness  about 
her  which  appealed  powerfully  to  Lance,  upon 
whose  boyhood  fretful,  chiding  Roxy  had  tended. 
She  seemed  a  refuge,  a  comforter  indeed. 

His  haggard  gaze  still  on  her  face,  he  answered 
in  a  half -voice  that  the  arm  did  feel  better.  The 
food  she  warmed  for  him,  the  coffee  that  was 
heated  and  served  steaming,  these  gave  him 
courage  as  nothing  yet  had.  He  fairly  choked, 
and  a  mist  swam  before  his  eyes,  when  she  sud- 


In  Hiding  363 

denly  held  the  fragrant,  inspiring  beverage  to  his 
lips.  Her  voice  drove  away  at  once  the  haunting 
noises  of  the  wind  howling  up  the  breaks  of  the 
creek,  the  insistent  drip-drip  of  the  water ;  her  pres- 
ence shut  out  the  vast,  oppressive  loneliness  of  the 
place ;  her  bright  warm  color  shone  in  that  dark 
against  which  the  mere  blaze  of  the  pine  knots 
had  been  so  feeble ;  sounds  of  her  living  presence 
vanquished  the  silence  that  had  weighed  heavier 
on  his  spirit  than  all  the  rocks  in  the  bluff.  The 
dome  of  that  stone  skull  at  once  became  a  round, 
cozy  cup  of  sheltered  warmth  and  kindly  human 
cheer ;  as  much  a  home,  there  in  the  heart  of  the 
wilderness,  as  the  phcebe's  nest  had  ever  been. 
For  the  first  time  the  grim  Fact  that  had  sent 
him  into  hiding,  the  horrid  tragedy,  seemed  to 
blur  a  bit  in  its  outlines.  Callista  made  a  trip 
down  the  bank  to  the  floor  of  the  valley,  and 
brought  up  from  where  she  had  left  them  a 
small  kettle  and  a  frying  pan. 

"I'll  cook  you  a  fine  dinner,"  she  said  in  a 
cheery,  practical  tone,  speaking  as  though  she 
were  in  her  own  kitchen.  She  maintained  an 
absolutely  commonplace  note.  Neither  of  them 
mentioned  Flenton  Hands  nor  the  reason  for 
Lance's  present  predicament.  "That  stuff  I 
brought  ready  cooked  made  a  pretty  good  break- 
fast snack;  but  when  I  get  me  plenty  of  clean 
coals  here,  we'll  have  some  good  hot  sweet  pota- 
toes and  bacon.  I'm  right  hungry  myself." 


364  Lance  Cleaverage 

Lance  sighed. 

"I  reckon  I'm  as  much  perished  for  sleep  as 
for  victuals,"  he  told  her  heavily.  "  After  Buddy 
left  me,  I  tried  to  get  dry;  but  we'd  missed  out 
most  of  the  things  we  ought  to  have  got  when 
we  come  a-past  the  place,  and  lost  the  rest  in 
the  creek ;  I  hadn't  scarcely  anything  to  change 
with.  Look  like  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep.  Then 
all  day  yesterday  I  thought  I'd  catch  a  nap;  but 
my  arm  sort  o'  bothered  me  some,  and  —  well, 
the  water  drip-drip-drippin'  out  there  pestered 
me.  It  seemed  I  must  sleep  when  night  come 
again;  but  I  don't  think  I  had  to  exceed  two 
hours  of  rest." 

Callista  glanced  keenly  sidewise  at  him  where 
he  lay  inert.  The  weeks  of  their  separation  were 
now  running  into  months.  What  these  had  done 
to  Lance  grieved  her  generosity  and  flattered 
her  pride.  Always  lean  and  bright  eyed,  there 
was  now  a  painful  appearance  about  the  extreme 
fleshlessness  of  jaw  and  temple,  the  over-brilliance 
of  the  eye  in  its  deeply  hollowed  orbit.  Sight 
of  what  he  had  suffered  for  her  and  by  her 
softened  Callista's  voice  to  tenderness  when  she 
spoke. 

"We'll  fix  it  for  you  to  rest  after  dinner," 
she  told  him  positively.  "  I  can  set  out  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cave,  so  you  will  be  easy  in  your 
mind;  then  you'll  get  some  good  sleep." 

Lance  accepted  this  as  indicating  that  she  was 


In  Hiding  365 

very  willing  to  be  rid  of  him  and  his  talk.  It 
was  what  might  be  expected.  He  asked  her  a 
question  or  two  and  relapsed  into  silence.  Pres- 
ently, noticing  that  his  eyes  were  not  closed,  she 
gave  him  some  additional  news. 

"The  baby's  about  to  walk,"  she  said.  "He's 
a-pullin'  up  by  the  chairs  all  the  time,  and  he  can 
go  from  one  person  to  another,  if  they'll  hold 
out  they'  hands." 

A  swift  contraction  passed  over  Lance's  features 
at  the  picture  her  words  called  up. 

"Haven't  got  him  named  yet?"  he  suggested 
huskily. 

The  color  flared  warm  on  Callista's  face  as  she 
bent  to  the  fire. 

"  I  —  why  —  Gran'pappy's  an  old  man,  and 
I'm  the  onliest  grandchild  he's  got.  He  always 
was  powerful  kind  to  me ;  and  the  baby  —  why, 
he  just  —  " 

"You've  called  the  boy  Ajax,"  supplied  Lance, 
in  that  tired  voice  which  now  was  his.  "That's 
a  good  name." 

While  she  cooked  the  "fine  dinner"  their  talk 
blew  idly  across  the  surface  of  deeps  which  both 
dreaded. 

"Pore  Roxy!"  Lance  said  musingly.  "Hit 
was  mighty  kind  of  her  to  send  me  her  gospel 
quilt." 

From  her  work  at  the  fire  Callista  answered 
him. 


366  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Your  sister  Roxy  thinks  a  heap  o'  you,  Lance ; 
you  needn't  never  to  doubt  it.  Course  she  does, 
or  she  wouldn't  always  have  been  pickin'  at 
you." 

Lance  lay  tensely  quiescent  a  moment,  then  he 
questioned  softly, 

"Is  that  a  sign?  " 

Callista  glanced  at  him  a  bit  startled ;  but  the 
long  lashes  veiled  his  eyes,  and  the  face  was  in- 
decipherable. 

"Roxy  was  bound  and  determined  to  come 
here  in  my  place,"  she  observed.  "I  reckon  I'd 
never  'a'  got  the  word  where  you  was  hid  out  if 
it  hadn't  'a'  been  for  her.  Sylvane  wouldn't  tell 
her,  and  she  come  to  me  about  it.  Sis'  Roxy 
has  a  kind  heart  under  her  sharp  speech." 

From  beneath  those  shadowing  lashes  Lance 
looked  long  and  curiously  at  her,  but  made  no 
response.  After  the  meal  was  served  and  eaten 
with  a  sort  of  subdued  enjoyment,  they  con- 
tinued silent,  glancing  furtively  at  each  other, 
Callista  a  bit  uneasy,  and  most  urgent  that  he 
should  try  to  rest. 

When  she  rose  and  went  lightly  about  little 
homely  tasks,  her  husband's  eyes  followed  her 
every  movement.  Something  he  wanted  to  say — 
the  sum  of  all  those  days  of  black  loneliness  and 
nights  of  brooding  in  the  Gap  cabin  after  she  left 
him  there  —  stuck  in  his  throat  and  held  him 
silent.  A  tiny  creature,  probably  the  rock  vole, 


In  Hiding  367 

nosing  about  in  the  obscurity  which  hid  the  rear 
of  the  cave,  dislodged  something  which  fell  with 
a  sudden  pang  of  musical  sound  across  the  aching 
silence,  to  be  followed  by  tiny  squeakings  and 
scuttlings.  Callista  turned,  her  hand  raised  to 
her  lip,  and  stared  into  the  darkness  whence 
the  airy  chord  spoke  to  her.  Lance  looked  up 
and  caught  the  shine  of  the  firelight  on  her  white 
cheek,  her  bright  hair,  lighting  a  spark  in  the 
eye  which  was  averted  from  him. 

"  It's  my  old  banjo,"  he  said  nervelessly.  "  Go 
get  it,  Callista,  and  break  it  up  and  put  it  on  the 
fire." 

She  seemed  to  hear  only  the  opening  words  of 
his  command,  and  moved  quietly  into  the  shadows 
behind  them,  groped  for  the  instrument,  found  and 
brought  it  forward  in  her  hand. 

"  Break  it  'crost  your  knee,  and  then  burn  it," 
Lance  prompted  her. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  round  of  the 
eye,  a  swift  surprise  that  was  almost  terror.  The 
banjo,  lacking  a  string  and  with  the  remaining 
four  sagging  woefully,  yet  spoke  its  querulous 
little  protest  in  her  fingers.  This  was  the  voice 
that  had  cried  under  her  window.  Here  was 
the  singer  of  "How  many  miles,  how  many 
years?"  and  she  was  bidden  to  break  it  and  cast 
it  to  the  flames.  This  had  been  Lance's  joy  of 
life,  the  expression  of  moods  outside  her  under- 
standing and  sympathy.  She  caught  the  shining 


368  Lance  Cleaverage 

thing  to  her  as  though  she  defended  it  from  some 
menace,  cherishing  it  in  a  kindly  grasp. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered  softly.  "No,  Lance. 
I  couldn't  burn  it  up.  It's  —  the  banjo  is  the 
most  harmless  thing  in  the  world.  Why  should 
I  be  mad  at  it?" 

"You  used  to  be,"  said  Lance  simply.    "  I  - 
he  hesitated,  then  finished  with  a  sort  of  haste 
-  "  I  always  was  a  fool  about  it.     I  think  you'd 
better  put  it  in  the  fire." 

Reverently  she  touched  the  strings,  struggling 
with  something  too  big  for  expression. 

"I'll  never  harm  it,"  she  told  him.  "If  I 
thought  you  would,  I'd  take  it  back  with  me 
and  keep  it  till  —  till  you  could  come  and  play 
it  again.  You  just  don't  feel  like  yourself  now." 

His  arm  dropped  to  the  rock  beside  him.  His 
face,  turned  away  from  her,  was  laid  sidewise 
upon  it.  She  guessed  that  he  feigned  sleep. 

She  had  forgiven  the  banjo.  She  spoke  of  his 
homecoming.  She  would  accept  him.  She  would 
hold  nothing  against  him !  .  .  .  Yet,  somehow,  he 
could  not  find  in  his  sore  heart  the  joy  and  grati- 
tude which  should  have  answered  to  this  state  of 
affairs.  He  ought  to  be  thankful.  It  was  more 
than  he  deserved.  Yet  —  to  be  forgiven,  to  be 
accepted  —  when  had  Lance  Cleaverage  ever 
desired  such  boons? 

When  all  was  cleared  away  with  efficient, 
skillful  swiftness,  Callista  left  her  patient  lying 


In  Hiding  369 

quiescent,  and  went  to  the  cave,  wrapping  her- 
self in  one  of  the  homespun  blankets  and  sitting 
where  she  could  look  out  and  see  the  valley. 
After  a  time  inaction  became  irksome,  and  she 
went  down  to  gather  more  chestnut  wood  for 
his  fire.  This  she  piled  in  the  vestibule,  laying 
it  down  lightly  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  sleeper. 
The  afternoon  wore  on.  Once  she  looked  around 
the  turn,  but  the  fire  had  declined,  and  she  could 
make  out  nothing  save  a  bulk  of  shadow  where 
Lance  lay.  Stealing  in,  she  laid  on  more  wood. 
The  next  time  she  went  out  the  sun  was  sunk 
behind  the  western  ranges,  and  twilight,  coming 
fast,  warned  her  that  she  must  presently  get  back 
to  her  tryst  with  Sylvane.  Returning  with  the  last 
load  of  fuel,  she  found  the  inner  chamber  of  the 
cave  full  of  the  broken  brightness  that  came  from 
a  branch  of  pine  she  had  ventured  to  put  in  place, 
seeing  that  the  smoke  so  completely  took  care 
of  itself.  Her  husband  still  lay  with  his  head 
on  his  arm.  She  would  not  wake  him.  Doubt- 
fully she  regarded  the  prostrate  figure,  then 
knelt  a  moment  at  his  side  and  whispered, 

"Lance.  Lance,  I  have  obliged  to  go  now. 
Either  Sylvane  or  me  —  or  both  of  us  —  will 
be  here  a-Wednesday  night  about  moonrise.  If 
anything  happens  that  we  can't  come  Wednesday, 
we'll  be  here  the  next  night." 

She  waited  a  moment.  Getting  no  response, 
she  murmured, 


37°  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Good-by,  Lance." 

The  tone  was  kind,  even  tender.  Yet  the  man, 
whose  closed  lids  covered  waking  eyes,  felt  no 
impulse  to  let  her  know  that  he  heard,  no  desire 
to  respond  to  her  farewell. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

THE   SHERIFF    SCORES. 

TANCE  CLEAVERAGE  lay  in  the  cavern 
I—/  above  the  East  Fork  of  Caney  for  nearly 
two  weeks.  The  search  for  him  was  persistent, 
even  savage,  the  reason  given  being  that  he  had 
attempted  the  life  of  an  officer  of  the  law.  Flen- 
ton  Hands  had  been  taken  to  the  house  of  his 
kinsman  the  sheriff,  and  the  bulletins  sent  out 
from  his  bedside  were  not  encouraging;  yet 
Lance's  people  clung  to  such  hope  as  they  might 
from  the  fact  that  the  man  was  not  yet  dead. 

"No,  Flent  ain't  gone  yet,"  Beason  would 
rumble  out  when  questioned  on  the  subject, 
"but  he's  mighty  low  —  mighty  low.  He's 
liable  to  drop  off  any  time ;  and  who'd  take  Lance 
Cleaverage  then,  I'd  like  to  know?  Not  me. 
No,  nor  not  any  man  I've  met,  so  far.  The  thing 
for  us  to  do  is  to  git  that  thar  wild  hawk  of  a 
feller  while  they's  nothing  agin  him  more  than 
assault  with  intent  to  kill,  or  some  such.  When 
he  smells  hemp  in  the  business,  he's  goin'  to  make 
it  too  dangerous  for  anybody  to  go  after  him,  and 
his  folks '11  git  him  out  o'  them  mountains  and 
plumb  away  to  Texas,  or  Calif orny." 

This  it  was  which,  urging  haste,  gave  the  hunt 


372  Lance  Cleaverage 

its  flavor  of  savagery.  The  empty  cabin  at  the 
head  of  Lance's  Laurel  had  been  ransacked  again 
and  again ;  it  was  known  to  be  watched  day  and 
night;  the  espionage  on  the  house  of  Kimbro 
Cleaverage  and  that  of  the  Gentrys  was  almost 
as  close.  But  Callista  and  Sylvane  continually 
evaded  it  at  night,  and  kept  the  fugitive  in  his 
cave  well  provided.  In  spite  of  their  care,  Lance 
pined  visibly.  His  arm  was  almost  healed ;  he 
suffered  from  no  definite  bodily  ailment,  save 
a  low,  fretting  fever;  but  his  manner  was  one 
of  heavy  languor,  broken  by  random  breaths  of 
surface  irritability. 

Then  came  a  Saturday  night  when  Beason's 
men,  watching  a  trail,  surprised  and  took  Sylvane 
laden  with  food  and  necessaries  plainly  intended 
for  the  man  in  hiding.  They  rose  up  from 
behind  some  rocks  by  the  roadside  and  had  the 
boy  in  their  clutches  almost  before  he  knew  to 
be  alarmed.  It  was  a  raw,  gray  February  even- 
ing, drawing  in  sullenly  to  night,  with  a  spit  of 
rain  in  the  air,  freezing  as  it  fell,  stinging  the 
cheek  like  a  whip-lash,  numbing  toes  and  fingers. 
The  boy  looked  desolately  up  the  long  road  which 
he  had  intended  to  forsake  for  a  safer  trail  at  the 
next  turning.  He  glanced  at  his  laden  mule,  and 
answered  at  random  the  volleyed  questions 
flung  at  him.  Finally  Beason,  heavy,  black- 
bearded,  saturnine,  silenced  them  all  and  opened 
out,  with  the  dignity  of  his  office, 


The  Sheriff  Scores  373 

"Now  see  here,  Sylvanus  Cleaverage,  these 
gentlemen  with  me  is  sworn  officers  of  the  law. 
We  know  whar  you're  a-goin'  at,  and  who  you're 
a-goin'  to.  They's  no  use  to  dodge." 

"I  ain't  a-dodgin',"  retorted  Sylvane,  and  in 
the  tilt  of  his  head  against  the  weak  light  of  the 
western  sky  one  got  his  full  resemblance  to  Lance. 
"  If  you  know  so  mighty  well  and  good  right  where 
I  was  a-goin'  at,  go  thar  yo'self,"  he  concluded, 
desperate,  at  the  end  of  everything.  "  What  you 
pesterin'  me  about  it  for?  With  your  kind  leave 
I'll  turn  around  and  walk  myself  back  home." 

"No  you  won't,"  Season  countered.  "Ain't 
I  told  you  that  we're  all  officers  of  the  law,  and 
I'm  sheriff  of  this  here  county,  and  I  aim  to  do 
my  duty  as  sworn  to  perform  it  ?  What  you  got 
to  do  is  to  jest  move  along  in  the  —  in  the  direc- 
tion you  was  a-goin',  and  lead  us  to  Lance  Cleaver- 
age.  You  do  that,  or  you'll  wish  you  had." 

It  was  a  lack  of  tact  to  threaten  even  this 
younger  one  of  the  Cleaverage  boys. 

"I'll  never  do  yo'  biddin',"  Sylvane  told  him 
with  positiveness,  "not  this  side  of  the  grave. 
As  for  makin'  me  wish  I  had,  you  can  kill  me, 
but  that  won't  get  Buddy  for  you.  He's  whar 
you  can't  take  him.  You'll  never  find  him;  an' 
if  you  did,  no  ten  men  could  take  him  whar  he's 
at.  An'  if  I  was  killed  and  put  out  of  the  way, 
there's  them  that  would  still  feed  him  and  carry 
him  the  news." 


374  Lance  Cleaverage 

"The  good  God  A'mighty!  Who  wants  to  kill 
you,  you  fool  boy?"  demanded  Beason  testily. 
"There's  been  too  much  killin'  did;  that's  the 
trouble." 

"Oh  —  Flent's  dead  then?"  inquired  Sylvane 
on  a  falling  note,  searching  the  faces  before  him 
in  the  dusk. 

"Will  you  lead  us  to  whar  Lance  is  at,  or 
will  you  not?"  demanded  Beason  monotonously, 
dropping  the  flimsy  pretense  that  they  had  any 
knowledge  of  the  fugitive's  hiding  place. 

"I'll  go  with  you  to  Pappy,"  Sylvane  com- 
promised. "  Whatever  Pappy  says  will  be  right." 

So  they  all  turned  and  went  together  to  the 
old  Cleaverage  place,  the  boy  on  his  laden  mule 
riding  in  their  midst.  They  found  Kimbro  at 
home  sick.  He  got  up,  trembling,  from  his  bed 
and  dressed  himself. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  them,  appearing  in 
their  midst,  humbled,  broken,  but  still  self- 
respecting,  "  I  wish  my  son  Lance  would  sur- 
render himself  up  to  the  law  —  yes,  I  do.  His 
health  is  giving  way  under  what  he  has  to  endure. 
But  lead  you  to  him  I  will  not,  without  I  first 
get  his  consent  to  do  so.  If  you  have  a  mind  to 
stay  here  —  and  if  you  will  give  me  yo'  word  of 
honor  not  to  foller  nor  watch  me,  Sheriff  Beason 
-  I  will  go  myself  and  see  what  he  has  to  say ; 
and  I'll  come  back  and  tell  you." 

Beason  held  a  prolonged  whispered  consultation 


The  Sheriff  Scores  375 

with  his  three  men.  At  the  end  of  it  he  turned 
and  said  to  the  father  half  surlily, 

"Go  ahead,  I  give  you  my  word  to  neither 
foller  nor  watch." 

The  men  sprawled  themselves  about  Roxy 
Griever's  hearthstone,  warming  luxuriously, 
dreading  to  go  forth  again  into  the  raw  February 
weather.  Roxy  followed  her  father  to  the  door. 

"Pappy,"  she  pleaded,  clinging  to  his  arm. 
"Hit '11  be  the  death  of  you  to  go  abroad  this-a- 
way,  sick  like  you  air,  and  all." 

"No,  Roxana  —  no,  daughter,"  Kimbro  re- 
plied, drawing  her  gently  out  to  the  porch,  whence 
they  could  see  Sylvane  getting  a  saddle  on  to 
Satan.  "I  feel  as  though  I  might  be  greatly 
benefited  if  only  this  matter  of  Lance's  can  be 
fixed  up.  I  consider  that  they  trust  me  more 
than  another  when  they  consent  to  let  me  go 
this  way." 

Roxy's  eye  rolled  toward  the  doorway  and 
dwelt  upon  the  officers  of  the  law  who  were  to 
remain  her  guests  till  her  father's  return.  Across 
her  mind  came  dim  visions  of  heroic  biblical 
women  who  had  offered  deadly  hospitality  to 
such.  Step  by  step  she  followed  Kimbro  to  the 
gate,  whispering, 

"Don't  you  git  Lance  to  give  himself  up, 
Pappy  —  don't  do  it.  You  tell  him  Sylvane  is 
a-goin'  to  fetch  extra  ammunition  from  Hepzibah, 
and  if  he  can  hold  out  till  Spring,  these  fellers 


376  Lance  Cleaverage 

is  bound  to  git  tired  and  turn  loose  the  job.  He 
can  slip  away  then;  or  they'll  be  wore  out,  an' 
ready  to  make  some  sort  o'  terms  with  the  boy." 

"Daughter,"  said  the  old  man,  softly,  "your 
brother  would  be  dead  before  Spring." 

"Well,  he'll  shore  die,"  cried  the  poor  woman, 
in  a  sort  of  piercing  whisper,  "  ef  they  take  him 
down  to  jail  in  the  settlement.  Pappy,  you  know 
Lance  ain't  never  goin'  to  live  —  in  the  jail!" 

And  Kimbro  left  her  sobbing  at  the  gate,  as  he 
rode  away  on  the  black  horse,  his  frail,  drooping 
figure  a  pathetic  contrast  to  the  young  animal's 
mettlesome  eagerness. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE    ISLAND    AT   LAST. 

AFTER  his  father  left  him,  Lance  slept,  the  sleep 
of  a  condemned  and  shriven  man,  long  and  deep 
and  dreamless,  the  first  sound  rest  his  tortured 
nerves  and  flagging  powers  had  known  since  the 
night  in  Hepzibah. 

Kimbro  Cleaverage  —  following  Sylvane's  direc- 
tions —  had  come  without  difficulty  to  his  son's 
cave  hide-out,  arriving  at  about  eleven  o'clock. 
He  found  Lance  sitting  wakeful  by  the  fire,  the 
gay  folds  of  the  gospel  quilt  over  his  knees,  played 
upon  by  the  shimmer  and  shine  of  the  leaping 
blaze.  The  young  man's  fever-bright  gaze  was 
directed  with  absorbed  attention  toward  his  work. 
He  was  delicately  snipping  loose  ends  with  the 
shears,  while  a  threaded  needle  was  stuck  in  the 
lapel  of  his  coat.  He  had  taken  the  scarlet  calico 
and  cut  from  it  a  series  of  tiny  Greek  crosses,  beau- 
tifully exact  and  deftly  grouped  and  related  so 
as  to  form  a  border  around  the  entire  square. 
With  that  sense  of  decorative  effect  which  was 
denied  his  sister,  he  had  set  these  so  that  the  inter- 
play of  red  and  white  pleased  the  eye,  and  almost 
redeemed  the  archaic  absurdities  of  the  quilt 
itself.  Skilled  with  the  needle  as  a  woman,  he  had 

377 


378  Lance  Cleaverage 

basted  the  last  cross  in  place  when  his  father 
entered. 

The  talk  which  followed,  there  in  that  subterra- 
nean atmosphere  that  is  neither  out-  nor  in-door, 
neither  dark  nor  light,  was  .long  and  earnest. 
Kimbro  spoke  freely,  and  there  was  always  that 
in  his  father  which  took  Lance  by  the  throat. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  entire  lack  of  accusation;  per- 
haps something  in  the  old  man's  personality  that 
appealed  with  its  tale  of  struggle  and  failure,  its 
frank  revelation  of  patiently  borne  defeat. 

"  I'll  go  right  back  with  you,  Pappy,  if  you  say 
so,"  Lance  murmured  huskily  at  the  last,  looking 
up  into  the  gray  old  face  above  him  like  the 
child  he  had  used  to  be.  "As  well  now  as  any 
time." 

"No,  son,"  said  Kimbro  slowly.  His  heart 
ached  with  the  cry,  "The  Lord  knows  there  ain't 
no  such  hurry  —  there'll  be  time  enough  after- 
ward!" But  his  habit  of  gentle  stoicism  pre- 
vailed, and  he  only  paused  a  little,  then  added, 
"  I  reckon  we  better  not  do  that  —  I  reckon  we 
couldn't  very  well.  I  rode  the  black  nag  pretty 
hard  coming  up.  The  going's  heavy.  He  couldn't 
carry  us  both  back,  not  in  any  sort  of  time ;  and 
nary  one  of  us  is  fit  to  make  it  afoot.  No,  I'll  take 
the  word  to  Beason,  and  him  and  his  men  will 
likely  stay  at  our  house  till  in  the  morning  —  poor 
Roxy!  Sylvane'll  ride  the  mule  up  here  tol'able 
early,  and  lead  your  horse.  You  go  straight  home. 


The  Island  at  Last  379 

Beason  and  his  men  can  come  for  you  to  your 
house.  Will  that  suit?" 

"Hit'll  suit,"  Lance  answered. 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  the  two.  Then 
the  old  man  moved  to  the  cave's  mouth.  "  Fare- 
well," he  said,  and  stood  hesitating,  his  back  to 
his  son. 

Lance  followed  his  father  a  few  halting  paces, 
carrying  a  chunk  of  fire,  lighting  the  old  man  down 
the  bank. 

"Farewell,  Pappy,"  he  echoed. 

"All  right,  son,"  came  back  the  faint  hail,  then 
after  a  moment's  silence  Kimbro's  voice  added, 
"Thank  you  for  sending  this  word  by  me.  Fare- 
well," and  there  was  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 
moving  on  down  the  little  valley. 

Probably  six  hours  later,  Lance  wakened  and 
lay  looking  at  the  embers ;  he  reached  out  a  languid 
hand  to  push  a  brand  in  place.  Presently  he  rose 
and  built  up  the  smoldering  fire,  and  thereafter 
sat  beside  it,  head  on  hand,  his  hollow  eyes  study- 
ing the  coals.  His  father  was  gone  back  to  notify 
the  sheriff.  Well,  that  was  right  —  a  man  must 
answer  for  the  thing  he  did;  and  they  said  that 
Flenton  Hands  was  dead.  He  was  not  consciously 
glad  of  this  —  nor  regretful ;  he  was  only  very 
weary,  spent  and  at  the  end  of  everything.  How 
could  he  have  done  otherwise  than  he  had  done? 
And  yet  —  and  yet  - 

His  mind  went  back  the  long  way  to  his  wooing 


380  Lance  Cleaverage 

of  Callista.  What  a  flowery  path  it  was  to  lead 
to  such  a  bleak  conclusion !  Then  once  more  his 
thought  veered,  like  the  light  shifting  smoke  above 
the  fire,  to  Hands.  They'd  hardly  hang  him  for 
the  killing.  It  was  not  a  murder.  There  were 
those  who  would  testify  as  to  what  his  provocation 
had  been.  But  it  would  mean  his  days  shut  away 
from  the  sun ;  a  disgraced  name  to  hand  down  to 
his  boy. 

For  no  reason  which  he  could  have  given,  the 
sound  of  a  banjo  whispered  in  his  memory,  "  How 
many  miles,  how  many  years  ? ' '  Ah,  the  miles  and 
the  years  then !  Callista  would  be  free  —  and  that 
would  be  right,  too.  He  had  no  call  to  cling  to 
her  and  claim  her.  She  had  never  been  his,  never 
-  never  —  never !  An  inconsequent  vision  of  her 
face  lying  on  his  breast  the  night  he  had  climbed 
the  wild  grapevine  to  her  window  came  mockingly 
back  to  tantalize  him.  He  stirred  uneasily,  and 
reached  to  lay  another  chunk  in  place,  mutely 
answering  the  recollection  back  again  —  she  had 
never  been  his. 

Then  suddenly  his  head  lifted  with  a  start ;  there 
was  the  noise  of  a  rolling  stone  outside,  a  thrash- 
ing of  the  bushes,  a  rush  of  hurrying  feet,  and  even 
before  he  could  spring  up  Callista  was  in  the  cave. 

But  not  any  Callista  Lance  had  ever  known; 
not  the  scornful  beauty  who  throned  herself  among 
her  mates  and  accepted  the  homage  of  mankind  as 
her  due ;  not  the  flushed,  tremulous  Callista  of  that 


The  Island  at  Last  3Si 

never-to-be-forgotten  night  at  the  window.  This 
was  not  the  young  wife  of  the  earlier  married 
days  —  least  of  all  the  mother  of  his  son,  or  the 
kindly  friend,  the  stanch  partner,  who  had  tended 
on  and  served  him  here  in  the  cave.  This  was  a 
strange,  fierce,  half -distraught,  shining-eyed  Cal- 
lista,  a  fit  adventurer,  if  she  list,  to  put  forth  to- 
ward his  island.  A  little  dark  shawl  was  tied  over 
her  bright  head;  but  from  under  its  confining 
edges  the  fair  locks,  usually  so  ordered  and  placid, 
streamed  loosely  around  the  face  which  looked  out 
white  and  fearful.  Her  dress  was  soaked  about  the 
edges  and  all  up  one  side.  It  was  stained  with 
earth,  there,  too,  ripped  loose  from  the  waist,  and 
torn  till  it  hung  in  long,  streaming  shreads.  A  deep 
scratch  across  her  cheek  bled  unheeded,  and  a  flying 
strand  of  hair  had  glued  fast  in  it.  Her  shaking 
hands  were  bleeding  too,  and  grimed  with  woods 
mold,  her  finger  nails  were  packed  with  it,  where 
she  had  fallen  again  and  again  and  scrambled  up. 
She  walked  staggeringly  and  breathed  in  gasps. 

"They  -  "  she  panted,  then  took  two  or  three 
laboring  breaths  before  she  could  go  on.  "They 
told  me  at  Father  Cleaverage's  that  they  was 
goin'  to  send  here  and  fetch  you  in  —  is  that  so  ?  " 

"I  reckon  they  are,"  the  man  beside  the  fire 
assented  nervelessly. 

A  wild  look  lightened  over  her  face.  She  came 
stumblingly  up  to  him. 

"Lance! "  she  choked.     "Did  you  sure  enough 


382  Lance  Cleaverage 

send  that  word  by  your  father  to  the  sheriff  ?  — 
Did  you  say  you'd  give  up  and  go  in  —  did 
you?" 

"Yes,"  he  returned  somberly.  "I  did,  Callista. 
That's  all  that  was  left  me." 

"My  God!"  she  breathed.  "And  I  couldn't 
believe  it  —  not  a  word  of  it.  But  I  just  slipped 
out  and  come.  I've  got  Gran'pappy's  horse  Maje 
and  the  Mandy  mule  tied  down  in  the  bushes 
below  there,  and  - 

Cleaverage  glanced  about  him  and,  rising,  began 
to  roll  together  the  blankets  of  his  bed. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  in  a  sort  of  automatic 
fashion.  "Pappy  left  me  before  midnight,  and 
he  was  riding  Satan.  I  reckon  I  ought  to  be  mov- 
ing right  soon  now.  It  must  be  sun-up  outside, 
ain't  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  desperate  doubt. 

"  Lance !"  she  demanded,  clutching  his  arm  with 
her  trembling  hand.  "What  made  you  send 
Father  Cleaverage  with  such  word  as  that  ?  —  and 
never  let  me  know !  —  Oh,  Lance,  what  did  you  do 
it  for?  Bring  them  things  and  come  on  down 
quick.  There  may  be  time  yet." 

He  stared  at  her  dumbly  questioning  for  a 
moment.  Long  misery  had  made  his  wits  slow. 
He  plainly  hesitated  between  thinking  her  the 
emissary  sent  from  home  for  him  and  the  under- 
standing that  she  wanted  him  to  escape. 

"Time?"  he  repeated.     "Do  you  mean — ?" 


The  Island  at  Last  383 

Her  lips  shaped  "yes,"  her  eyes  fastened  upon 
his  face. 

He  took  it  very  quietly.  Slowly  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  I  ain't  got  anyright  to  do  that,"  he  said.  "  I've 
given  my  word  to  Pappy.  They'd  hold  him  for  it. 
And  if  I  did  go,  I'd  be  running  and  hiding  the 
balance  o'  my  days.  You  and  the  boy  would  be 
lost  to  me  —  same  as  you  will  be  as  it  is.  And  - 
and  you  wouldn't  be  free.  I  done  the  thing. 
Let  me  take  my  punishment  like  a  man,  Callista. 
Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  he  cried  out  with  a  sudden 
sharp  cry,  "  let  me  do  something  like  a  man !  I've 
played  the  fool  boy  long  enough." 

He  dropped  back  into  a  sitting  posture  beside 
the  fire.  Callista  had  never  released  his  arm.  It 
was  plain  that  his  attitude  frightened  her  more 
terribly  than  any  violence  of  resistance  would  have 
done.  She  bent  over  him  now  in  the  tremulous 
intensity  of  her  purpose,  whispering,  the  low 
pleading  of  her  voice  still  interrupted  with  little 
gasps. 

"You're  broke  down  living  this-a-way,  Lance. 
You  don't  know  your  own  mind  —  you  ain't  fit 
to  speak  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  Callista,"  said  Lance's  quiet  tones,  "I'm 
a  sight  fitter  to  speak  for  myself  now  than  I  ever 
was  before  in  my  life.  I've  got  it  to  do." 

Up  to  this  time,  the  trouble  between  these  two 
had  continued  to  be  a  lovers'  quarrel.  Leaving 


384  Lance  Cleaverage 

Lance  alone  in  the  house  he  had  builded  for  her, 
throwing  back  into  his  face  such  help  as  he  would 
have  followed  her  with,  Callista  had  but  triumphed 
as  she  used  to  when  they  bickered  before  an 
audience  of  their  mates.  Angry  as  she  actually 
was  when  she  broke  with  him,  there  could  not  fail, 
also,  to  be  a  cruel  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  of 
how  she  put  him  from  his  ordinary,  how  she 
changed  the  course  of  his  life,  and  knew  him  her 
pining  lover,  the  man  who  could  not  sleep  o'  nights 
for  thought  of  her.  Perhaps,  when  his  pride  was 
broken,  and  he  came  suing  to  her,  personally,  she 
would  go  home  with  him  and  patch  the  matter  up 
with  patronage  and  forgiveness.  From  the  first 
this  expected  consummation  had  been  vaguely 
shadowed  in  her  mind  back  of  all  she  did  or  refused 
to  do.  Here  and  now  was  the  matter  sharply  taken 
out  of  her  hands.  Lance  turned  his  back  on  her. 
He  reckoned  without  her.  He  promised  to  others 
that  which  would  set  him  at  once  and  permanently 
beyond  her  recall.  With  an  impassioned  gesture, 
she  flung  herself  down  on  her  knees  before  him 
where  he  sat.  Her  arms  went  around  him,  her 
face  was  pressed  against  him. 

"No,  no,  Lance,"  she  implored.  "You  might 
speak  for  yourself  —  but  who's  to  speak  for  me? 
What'll  I  do  when  they  take  you  from  me?  I'd 
sooner  hide  like  a  wild  varmint  all  my  days.  I'd 
sooner  —  oh,  come  on  and  go  with  me,  Lance. 
I'll  run  with  you  as  long  as  we  both  live." 


The  Island  at  Last  385 

"That  wouldn't  be  a  fit  life  for  you  and  the 
baby,"  Lance  told  her. 

"The  baby!  "  replied  Callista,  almost  scornfully. 
"  I  didn't  aim  to  take  him  along.  It's  you  and  me, 
Lance  —  you  and  me." 

Gazing  up  at  him,  she  saw  the  look  in  her  hus- 
band's face;  she  saw  that  his  thoughts  were 
clearing,  and  that  the  resolute,  formulated  nega- 
tive was  coming. 

"Oh,  don't  say  it,  Lance!"  she  cried,  her  arms 
tightening  convulsively  around  his  body,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  lifted  face,  washing  away  the 
blood.  A  great  coughing  sob  shook  her  from  head 
to  foot.  "Oh,  Lance,  don't  —  don't  do  it!  I 
know  -  '  she  hastened  pitifully  —  "  I  know  I 
haven't  got  any  rights.  I  know  I've  wore  out 
your  love.  But  oh,  please,  honey,  come  with  me 
and  let's  run." 

Through  the  man's  dazed  senses  the  truth  had 
made  its  way  at  last.  He  sat  wonder-smitten. 
The  weeping  woman  on  her  knees  before  him 
looking  up  into  his  face,  with  eyes  from  which  the 
veil  of  pride  and  indifference  was  rent  away, 
eyes  out  of  which  the  sheer,  hungry,  unashamed 
adoration  gazed. 

"Lance,"  she  began  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  was 
scarce  more  than  a  breath,  a  mere  shadow  of 
sound,  "I've  never  told  you.  Look  like  I  always 
waited  for  you  to  say.  But  since  —  long  ago  — 
ever  since  you  and  me  was  boy  and  girl  —  and 


386  Lance  Cleaverage 

girl  together  -  They  was  never  anybody  for  me 
but  you  —  you,  dear.  They's  nothing  you  could 
do  or  be  that  would  make  it  different.  I  —  my 
heart  -  If  they  take  you  away  from  me,  Lance, 
darlin',  they  might  just  as  well  kill  me." 

Lance  reached  around  and  got  the  two  hands 
that  were  clinging  to  him  so  frantically.  He  held 
them,  one  over  the  other,  in  his  own  and,  bending 
his  head,  kissed  them  again  and  again.  He  touched 
the  loose  hair  about  her  forehead,  then  mutely 
laid  his  lips  against  its  fairness.  He  lifted  his  head 
and  looked  long  into  her  eyes  with  a  look  which 
she  could  not  understand. 

"You  —  you're  a-comin',  Lance?"  she  breathed. 

He  shook  his  head  ever  so  little. 

"Callista,"  he  said  very  softly,  and  the  name 
was  a  caress,  — "  mine  —  my  girl  —  my  Callista, 
you're  a-goin'  to  help  me  do  the  right  thing." 

She  started  back  a  little ;  she  caught  her  breath, 
and  her  blue  eyes  dilated  upon  him. 

"The  right  thing,"  her  husband  repeated,  with 
something  that  was  almost  a  smile  on  his  lips. 
"And  that's  to  ride  over  home  and  give  myself  up. 
God  bless  you,  dear,  I  can  do  it  now  with  a  quiet 
mind.  Oh,  Callista  —  Callista  —  I'm  happier  this 
minute  than  I  ever  was  before  in  my  life !  What- 
ever comes,  I  can  face  it  now." 

Callista  crouched  with  parted  lips  and  desperate 
eyes.  About  them  there  was  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  tiny  sibilations  of  the  fire,  the  hushed  voice 


The  Island  at  Last  387 

of  the  night  wind  muttering  in  the  outer  chamber 
of  the  cave,  as  the  air  sighs  through  the  open 
lips  of  a  sea-shell.  Her  ear  was  against  his  breast ; 
with  a  sort  of  creeping  terror  she  heard  the  even 
beating  of  his  heart.  He  could  say  such  words 
quietly !  An  awful  sense  of  powerlessness  gripped 
her.  Lance  was  arbiter  of  his  own  fate.  If  he 
chose,  he  could  do  this  thing.  She  was  like  one 
who  waits,  the  flood  at  her  lips,  while  the  inevitable 
death  rises  slowly  to  engulf.  Then  it  was  as  if  the 
waters  closed  above  her.  With  a  whispered  cry 
she  settled  forward  against  him,  and  rested  so, 
held  close  in  his  embrace.  Little  shivers  went 
over  her  lax  body.  She  uttered  brief,  broken 
murmurs.  Down  and  down  she  sank  in  the  arms 
that  clasped  her.  Lance  bent  his  head  to  hear. 

"Well  —  if  ye  won't  go  with  me,"  she  was 
saying,  "I'll  go  with  you.  I'll  go  wherever  they 
take  you.  What  you  suffer,  I'll  suffer,  Lance; 
because  the  fault  was  mine  —  oh,  the  fault  was 
mine! " 

"We  ain't  got  no  time  to  talk  about  faults, 
honey,"  he  said  to  her,  slipping  a  caressing  hand 
beneath  her  cheek,  lifting  the  bent  face,  kissing  her 
again  and  again,  offering  that  demonstrative  love 
for  which  Callista  thirsted,  which  she  had  no 
initiative  herself  to  proffer.  "  I'll  not  let  you  mis- 
call my  girl.  I  wouldn't  have  a  hair  of  her  head 
different.  Come  on,  darlin',  I've  got  to  make  good 
my  word." 


388  Lance  Cleaverage 

Strangely  stilled  as  to  her  grief,  Callista  rose. 
She  moved  silently  about  the  cave  and,  without 
any  further  word  of  remonstrance,  helped  him 
gather  his  belongings  together  and'  make  them 
ready.  Lance  himself  was  like  a  man  for  whom 
a  new  day  has  dawned.  He  was  almost  gay  when 
they  turned  to  take  their  farewell  of  the  place 
that  had  been  his  home  for  weeks. 

When  they  stepped  forth,  they  found  the  sun  fully 
risen  upon  a  morning  fair  and  promising.  Callista 
looked  long  at  the  rock-house  as,  carrying  their 
bundles,  they  passed  it  on  the  way  to  their  mounts. 

"  And  I  had  you  for  my  own  —  all  my  own  - 
and  nobody  to  hinder  —  while  we  lived  there," 
she   said;   speaking  in   a   slow,   wondering  tone. 
"Oh,  Lord!    Foolish  people  have  to  learn  hard 
when  'tis  that  they're  blessed." 

Lance's  free  arm  went  around  her  slight  body 
and  drew  her  close  to  his  side  as  they  walked. 
When  they  reached  the  animals,  he  loaded  the 
bedding  and  other  things  carefully  upon  them, 
then  turned  to  her. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said,  with  that  strange  deep 
glow  in  his  eyes,  "folks  that  love  each  other  like 
we  do  are  blessed  all  the  time,  whether  they're 
free  and  together  —  or  separated  —  or  in  jail. 
They're  blessed  whether  they're  above  ground  or 
below  it."  He  kissed  her  and  lifted  her  lightly  to 
Maje's  back  and  they  rode  away. 

As  they  followed  down  Caney  and  struck  east- 


The  Island  at  Last  .389 

ward  toward  the  Cleaverage  place,  the  morning 
drew  on, -sweet  and  towardly.  For  all  the  cold, 
there  was  an  under-note  of  Spring  in  the  air. 
February  felt  the  stirring  of  the  year  which  had 
turned  in  its  sleep.  They  rode  together,  hand  in 
hand,  where  the  trail  permitted,  both  remembering 
—  Lance  with  an  added  light  in  his  eyes  and  a 
meaning  smile,  Callista  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
tears  —  that  other  ride  they  had  taken  together, 
Lance's  arm  around  her,  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
when  they  went  down  to  Squire  Ashe's  to  be 
married. 

They  traveled  thus,  in  silence  or  with  few 
words  spoken,  for  nearly  two  hours.  Their  best 
road  home  would  take  them  past  the  old  Cleaver- 
age  place,  and  within  a  mile  of  the  house.  As  they 
drew  near  this  point  something  stirred  down  deep 
under  Lance's  quiet.  His  breath  quickened,  his 
face  set  in  sharp  lines.  He  suddenly  strained 
Callista  to  him  in  a  grasp  that  hurt,  then  released 
her,  touched  the  patient  Maje  with  his  heel  and 
pushed  ahead  at  a  good  gait.  Callista,  watching 
him,  followed  drooping  and  mute.  Moving  so, 
swiftly  and  in  single  file  they  reached  the  place 
whence  they  could  see  the  chimney  of  the  Kimbro 
Cleaverage  house  through  the  trees,  and  were 
aware  of  a  woman  on  a  black  horse,  a  child  car- 
ried carefully  in  her  arms,  coming  toward  them. 
Callista  lifted  her  hanging  head  and  looked  won- 
deringly  around  her  husband. 


39°  Lance  Cleaverage 

"Why,  I  do  believe  that's  Ola  Derf  on  Cindy!  " 
she  said  heavily.  "  Is  it?  No,  I  reckon  not." 

Since  the  day  on  which  Ola  had  bidden  her 
strange  reproachful  adieu  to  Lance's  empty  room, 
no  one  had  seen  her  on  Turkey  Track,  though  it 
was  reported  that  she  was  staying  with  kin  no 
further  away  than  Hepzibah. 

"It  is  Ola,"  said  Callista,  as  the  rider  of  the 
black  filly  came  nearer.  "And  she  —  she's  got 
my  baby!  O  Lord!  What  now?  " 

For  a  moment  the  astonishment  of  it  dulled  the 
agony  of  rebellion  which  once  more  surged  in 
Callista's  soul  as  she  looked  at  that  chimney 
through  the  trees  and  knew  that  there  by  its 
hearthstone  were  the  sheriff  and  his  men  ready  to 
take  Lance  from  her. 

"I  come  a-past  the  Gentry  place  and  stopped 
to  git  the  boy,"  Ola  called,  as  soon  as  she  could 
make  them  hear. 

It  occurred  to  Callista  that  this  girl,  too, 
supposed  that  Lance  would  try  to  escape,  and 
that  they  would  wish  to  take  the  baby  with 
them. 

"Sheriff  Beason  and  his  men  are  in  yon,"  Lance 
told  Ola,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  his  father's 
house.  "I'm  going  to  my  own  place  to  give  my- 
self up  —  they're  coming  up  there  for  me." 

Ola  nodded,  without  making  any  immediate 
reply.  She  looked  with  curious  questioning  from 
husband  to  wife,  shifting  the  baby  to  her  hip. 


The  Island  at  Last  391 

"My,  but  he's  solid,"  she  said  enviously,  the 
aboriginal  mother-woman  showing  strong  in  her 
ugly  little  brown  face. 

"I'll  take  him,"  Callista  murmured,  putting  out 
her  arms  almost  mechanically. 

But  Ola  made  no  movement  to  hand  over  the 
baby.  She  yet  sat  her  horse,  glancing  from  one 
countenance  to  the  other. 

"I've  been  a-stayin'  down  in  Hepzibah,"  she 
observed  abruptly.  "My  man,  he's  about  to  be 
out  of  the  pen,  and  him  and  Flent  Hands  had 
dealings  that  —  well,  that's  what  Charlie  was 
sent  up  for." 

"Your  man?"  echoed  Callista;  and  Lance 
smiled  as  she  had  not  seen  him  for  long. 

"Yes,  Charlie  Massengale,  my  man,"  Ola  re- 
peated. "Heap  o'  folks  around  here  didn't  know 
I  had  one.  We  was  wedded  in  the  Territory  when 
I  was  fo'teen,  and  he  got  into  trouble  in  the  Settle- 
ment —  this  here  trouble  that  Flent  was  mixed  up 
in — and  Pappy  'lowed  that  as  long  as  'yo'  old  man 
was  in  the  pen  you  better  not  name  anything 
about  him.'" 

She  was  smoothing  the  baby's  garments,  making 
ready,  with  evident  reluctance,  to  surrender  him 
to  them.  Ajax  the  Second  shouted  inarticulately 
at  his  mother,  but  kept  a  fairly  apprehensive  eye 
upon  the  man  who  rode  beside  her. 

"Well,  young  feller,"  said  Ola  finally,  lifting  the 
baby  and  holding  him  toward  his  parents,  "I 


39 2  Lance  Cleaverage 

reckon  I've  got  to  give  you  up,  jest  like  I  had  to 
give  up  yo'  pappy  afore  ye." 

She  laughed  a  little  hardily,  and  looked  with  a 
sort  of  dubious  defiance  at  Callista,  who  paid  no 
attention,  but  pushed  her  mule  close  in  beside 
Cindy. 

"  They  say  that  Flenton  Hands  is  —  is  -  Did 
you  go  to  Flenton's  funeral,  Ola?  "  asked  Callista 
fearfully,  as  the  women  negotiated  the  exchange 
of  the  baby. 

Ola  laughed  again,  and  more  loudly. 

"I  say  funeral!"  she  exclaimed.  "Flenton 
Hands  has  got  a  powerful  lot  more  davilment  to  do 
in  this  world  before  they  put  him  un'neath  the 
ground.  I  —  Pappy  —  they  —  well,  you  know  I 
was  down  there  when  this  all  happened,  and  some- 
how, I  thest  got  the  notion  in  my  head  that  Flent 
wasn't  so  mighty  awful  bad  hurt;  and  when  I 
heared  how  Beason  was  a-carryin'  on,  I  went  to 
their  house  to  see  Flent.  I  named  to  him  that 
Charlie's  time  was  'bout  to  be  up  an'  he'd  be  out, 
and  that  what  Charlie  had  stood  for  him  was  a 
plenty.  I  axed  him  didn't  he  want  to  send  a 
writin'  up  to  Beason  and  stop  this  foolishness  up 
here  on  Turkey  Track,  and  after  I'd  talked  to  him 
for  a  little  spell  he  'lowed  he  did." 

Callista,  hearkening  in  silence,  caught  the  child 
in  so  strained  a  grasp  that  he  made  a  little  outcry, 
half  scared,  half  offended.  Ola  pulled  from  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  a  letter  which  she  flung  over  to 


The  Island  at  Last  393 

Lance  with  the  uncouth  yet  generous  gesture  of  a 
savage. 

"  'Course  Flent  could  hang  on  and  make  you  a 
little  trouble  —  but  he  ain't  a-goin'  to,"  she  said 
sturdily.  "  I  reckon  he's  called  off  his  dogs  in  that 
writin'.  Hit  's  to  Dan  Beason." 

With  the  words  she  wheeled  her  horse  and  would 
have  gone,  but  Callista,  at  the  imminent  risk  of 
dropping  Ajax,  caught  at  Cindy's  bridle  rein. 

"I've  got  a  heap  to  thank  you  for,  Ola  Derf," 
she  said  in  a  voice  shaken  with  deep  feeling. 

"You  ain't  got  a  thing  in  the  world  to  thank 
me  for,  Callista  Gentry,"  declared  the  little  brown 
girl,  and  drew  her  black  brows  at  Lance's  wife. 
But  Callista's  whole  nature  melted  into  grateful 
love. 

"Where  you  goin'  now?"  she  asked  wistfully. 
"  Looks  like  you  and  me  ought  to  be  better  friends 
than  we  ever  have  been." 

Ola  considered  the  proposition,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"I  reckon  not,"  she  said  finally.  "I'm  a-goin' 
down  to  Nashville  right  soon.  Charlie  will  want 
me  to  be  right  thar  when  he  gits  out.  He's  not 
the  worst  man  in  the  world,  ef  he  ain't  - 

She  turned  a  sudden  swimming  look  on  the  pair 
with  their  child. 

"Good-by,"  she  ended  abruptly,  and  signaling 
Cindy  with  her  heel,  loped  off  down  the  road. 

The  hounds  at  the  Kimbro  Cleaverage  place 


394  Lance  Cleaverage 

were  evidently  away  on  hunting  enterprises  of 
their  own.  Lance  and  his  wife  rode  to  the  gate 
without  challenge,  dismounted,  tethered  the  ani- 
mals, and  omitting  the  customary  halloo,  opened 
the  door  upon  the  family  seated  at  a  late  breakfast. 

For  a  moment  nobody  in  the  room  stirred  or 
spoke.  The  sheriff  paused  with  a  morsel  checked 
on  its  way  to  his  open  mouth.  Roxy  Griever, 
coffee-pot  in  hand,  stopped  between  fireplace  and 
table.  Sylvane,  who  had  half  risen  at  the  sound 
of  steps,  remained  as  he  was,  staring,  while  old 
Kimbro's  eyes  reached  the  newcomer  with  pa- 
thetic entreaty  in  their  depths.  Ma'y-Ann-Marth' 
broke  the  spell  by  rushing  at  her  Uncle  Lance  and 
butting  into  his  knees,  shouting  welcome.  Then 
Sylvane  hastily  leaped  up  and  ran  to  his  brother's 
side,  as  though  to  share  as  nearly  as  might  be  that 
which  must  now  befall.  The  men  on  Season's 
either  hand  nudged  him  and  whispered. 

"Do  it  quick,"  Roxy  heard  one  mutter. 

"Better  get  the  handcuffs  on  him,"  admonished 
the  other.  "He's  a  slippery  cuss." 

Roxy  cast  a  look  of  helpless  fury  at  the  officers 
of  the  law,  and  mechanically  advanced  to  fill  their 
cups  once  more  —  gladly  would  she  have  poured 
to  them  henbane,  plague,  the  venom  of  adders. 
Beason  jammed  into  his  mouth  the  bite  he  had 
started  to  take,  and  speaking  around  it  in  a  voice 
of  somewhat  impaired  dignity,  began  his  solemn 
recitative, 


The  Island  at  Last  395 

"  Lance  Cleaverage,  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of 
the  law  —  " 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  suggested  Lance,  mildly, 
bending  to  pick  up  Ma'y-Ann-Marth'  (both  of  the 
deputies  ducked  as  his  head  went  down) ;  "I've  got 
a  letter  for  you,-  Daniel  Beason."  He  tossed  the 
envelope  to  the  sheriff  across  the  little  girl's 
flaxen  head.  "  Read  it  before  you  make  your 
arrest.  Read  it  out,  or  to  yourself." 

"Flent  ain't  dead!"  cried  Roxy,  with  a 
woman's  instinctive  piercing  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  They  all  remained  gazing  at  Beason 
while  he  tore  open  and  laboriously  deciphered  the 
communication.  His  face  fell  almost  comically. 

"  No,  he  ain't  dead  —  an'  he  ain't  a-goin'  to 
die,"  blustered  the  sheriff,  trying  to  cover  his  own 
pre-knowledge  of  the  fact.  "Well,  he's  made  a 
fool  of  me  one  time  too  many.  When  I  go  back  to 
Hepzibah,  I'll  settle  this  here  business  with  Mr. 
Flenton  Hands,  that  thinks  he  can  sick  the  law  on 
people  and  call  it  off,  same  as  you  would  a  hound 
dog.  Ouch !  The  good  Lord,  woman !  you  needn't 
scald  a  body." 

For  in  her  blissful  relief,  Roxy  had  swung  the 
spout  of  the  coffee-pot  a  wide  circle,  which  sprayed 
the  boiling  fluid  liberally  over  the  sheriff's  thumb. 
He  regarded  her  frowningly,  the  member  in  his 
mouth,  as  she  set  the  pot  down  ruthlessly  on  her 
cherished  tablecloth  of  floursacks  and  ran  to  add 
herself  to  the  group  about  her  returned  brother. 


396  Lance  Cleaverage 

The  deputies  got  to  their  feet  and  came  over  to 
shake  hands,  muttering  broken  phrases  concerning 
the  law,  and  always  having  entertained  the  utmost 
good  will  toward  their  quarry.  Even  Beason, 
nursing  his  painful  thumb,  finally  offered  a  surly 
paw.  Only  old  Kimbro  wheeled  from  the  table 
and  sat  with  bent  head,  his  working  face  turned 
toward  the  hearthstone,  tears  running  unchecked, 
unheeded,  down  the  cheeks  that  had  never  been 
thus  wet  in  the  days  of  his  most  poignant  sorrow. 

"No,  thank  you  kindly,  Sis'  Roxy,"  Lance 
refused  his  sister's  invitation  when  she  would 
have  forced  him  and  Callista  into  places  at  the 
table.  "  We'll  be  movin'  along  home."  His  tones 
dwelt  fondly  on  the  word.  "Neither  Callista  nor 
me  is  rightly  hungry  yet ;  we'll  take  our  first  meal 
at  our  own  place  to-day." 

It  was  bare  branches  they  rode  under  going 
home  to  the  cabin  in  the  Gap;  but  the  sap  had 
started  at  the  roots.  Winter  had  done  his  worst; 
his  bolt  was  sped ;  Spring  was  on  the  way. 

Fire  was  kindled  once  more  on  the  cold  hearth, 
a  splendid  banner  of  flame  wrapping  the  hickory 
logs,  and  Lance  sat  before  it  with  his  son  on  his 
knees,  warming  the  small  rosy  feet  chilled  from 
the  long  ride.  For  a  moment  he  caught  and 
held  both  restless,  dimpled  little  members  in  one 
sinewy  brown  hand,  marveling  at  them,  thrill- 
ing to  the  touch  of  their  velvet  softness. 

Outside,    a   cardinal's   note   came   persistently 


The  Island  at  Last  397 

from  the  stream's  edge,  a  gallant  call.  High  over 
the  Cumberlands  arched  the  blue,  dappled  with 
white  cloud.  It  was  a  rarely  beautiful  day,  such 
as  nearly  every  February  brings  a  few  of  in  that 
region.  On  every  rocky  hillside  farm  of  the  moun- 
tain country  harness  and  implements  were  being 
dragged  forth  and  inspected  against  the  beginning 
of  the  year's  work.  Winter's  prisoners  were 
everywhere  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  release.- 
Doors  were  left  open;  girls  called  from  outside 
announcing  finds  of  early  blossoms;  the  piping 
voices  of  children  at  play  came  shrill  and  keen  on 
the  cool,  sunlit  air. 

Within  Callista's  dusk  kitchen,  the  firelight  set 
moving  ruddy  shine  and  shadow  on  the  brown 
walls.  Midway  one  of  these  she  had  hung  up  the 
banjo,  having  carried  it  home  across  her  shoulders. 
Its  sheepskin  round  showed  a  misty  moon  within 
the  gleam  of  metal  band  where  the  blaze  struck 
out  a  sparkling  crescent  to  rim  one  side.  It  made 
no  question  now  of  "  How  many  miles,  how  many 
years?  "  for  the  answer  was  come.  Later  Lance 
would  take  it  down  and  string  it  afresh,  and  the 
little  feet  that  kicked  their  pink  heels  against  his 
knee,  their  fat  toes  curling  ecstatically  in  the  heat 
of  the  fire,  would  dance  to  its  strumming.  Even 
Callista  would  learn  the  delight  of  measuring  her 
step  by  its  music.  But  now  it  was  mute.  There 
was  no  need  of  its  voice  in  the  harmony  that  was 
here.  And  when  Callista,  in  the  pauses  of  her 


398  Lance  Cleaverage 

homely  task  of  dinner  making,  knelt  beside  the 
pair  at  the  fire  and  encircled  them  both  with  her 
arms,  Lance  knew  that  he  had  at  last  brought 
home  his  own  to  his  island.  An  island!  It 
stretched  away  before  the  eye  of  his  spirit,  a  conti- 
nent, a  world,  a  universe!  The  confines  of  that 
airy  domain  where  he  had  dwelt  alone  and  uncom- 
panioned,  were  suddenly  wide  enough  to  take  in 
all  mankind,  though  they  held  just  now  only  the 
trinity  of  home  —  father,  mother,  and  child. 


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A  Fascinating  Romance 


THE  GREAT 

POSSESSIONS 

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Mrs.  Ward's  latest  book  is  the  romance 
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Florence.  Starting  with  this  somewhat 
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A  story  of  action,  dealing  with  a  period 
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themselves  in  the  process.  There  is  love 
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